


Six Impossible Things

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Action/Adventure, Case Fic, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 50,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7660813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first thing I ever started writing in the Castle Fandom. WARNING: It is unfinished and will remain unfinished (barring some kind of miraculous writing recovery, which is unlikely). As with a handful of other stories, I'm putting it up short term because I'm removing the very last of my stuff from FF.net, and then starting to remove stuff from here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set at the end of Season 4, but given that I wrote it when we were only up to Cops & Robbers (4 x 07), it's AU from, at the very least, 47 Seconds onward.

Beckett was creeping up on six impossible things before breakfast. Thing One: Castle answering on the first ring. Before the first ring had even finished, actually.   
  
“Beckett. You have something?”    
  
"Castle?" She blinked down at her watch, the slightly snarky message she'd   
planned on leaving forgotten in her surprise at hearing his voice.   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Castle," she repeated, fumbling the phone between her shoulder and ear as she   
ducked under the crime scene tape. "I . . . you're . . ."   
  
"Still here," he paused, waiting for her to continue. "Butt dial, Beckett?"   
  
"No. No. I'm just surprised you're up at this hour." Beckett tapped the shield on   
her belt, nodding to the uniform just inside the crime scene perimeter.   
  
"Up. Oh, yeah . . . 6:05. Really?" Castle turned to the window.  _Full sun, so AM, then. Ugh._  He winced and dropped his head back.   
  
Beckett heard the familiar shriek of his office chair leaning back. "Castle, you know you're going to . . . "   
  
". . . Whooaaa geeze." His words were lost beneath a colossal crash, followed by   
a stream of profanity. "Ow . . ."   
  
". . . fall," she finished. "You ok, Castle? You know I can fix that chair . . ."   
  
"Fine. I'm fine, Beckett," he snapped. "And nothing touches my writing chair but   
my finely toned butt."  
  
"Finely toned?" She wound her way through a dense clutch of trees, stepping aside as a CSI armed with an array of brightly colored flags shot a pointed glare at her. "You sure about that? Here it is June and you're still in long jackets. Maybe a little too much time in the chair?"   
  
"The deadline looms, Detective, but I can assure you that things are as high and tight on my end as they ever were." She could hear him moving through his office, sliding drawers closed, tidying the desk. "But you didn't call to talk about my ass . . . or did   
you?" His voice dropped low.   
  
“My only interest in your ass”—The bustle in Beckett’s immediate vicinity came to a sudden stop. She buried a wide grin in her fist and notched her volume down— “Castle, is you dragging it down to Central Park. Southwest side of the reservoir.”   
  
“Ooh, a case? Or did you just want to watch the sunrise over the city with me and my tushie?”  
  
“Sunrise was 45 minutes ago.” Beckett stepped clear of the last of the trees ringing the reservoir and took a moment to take in Thing Two: A fairy tale castle, a little more than three-quarters finished, rising up against the June morning. “A case, Castle. And this one is really gonna hit you where you live.” 

* * *

  
  
Beckett circled around the back of the castle, taking in the bones of the rear wall and massive heaps of weathered stone waiting ready to complete the facade. There was a lot more work remaining over here. The guests would filter in from the park side, and the crew had probably focused on whipping that into shape first.   
  
As Beckett continued walking the perimeter, an odd, not particularly pleasant smell caught her attention. She stopped in her tracks, unwilling to look down and confirm her suspicions.   
  
“No. Just . . . no,” she cursed under her breath.   
  
“Unfortunately, yes.” Esposito ducked through a narrow gap in the scaffolding, slapping aside a plastic tarp. “There’s a paddock in the courtyard. One of the horses is missing, according to the groom.”   
  
_Horses. Loose in Central Park. Good morning, Thing Three,_ Beckett thought with an impatient snort.   
  
“The groom meaning the guy who takes care of the horses. The groom groom isn’t saying anything,” Ryan added, shooting Esposito an irritated look as the tarp swung back to hit him as he stepped into the clearing.   
  
“So what’ve we got?” Beckett asked.   
  
“Vic is a 27-year-old male named Philip Grayson.” Ryan snapped open his notebook. “Construction foreman found him hanging from the portcullis at approximately 4:50 this morning. He and the groom . . . horse guy . . . ID Grayson as the would-be groom. Not horse guy. Wedding was set for Saturday.”   
  
“We’ll have to wait on the official ID. Nothing on the body. No pockets in his tights, I guess,” Esposito added with a smirk.   
  
“Canions.” Castle’s voice sounded faint behind the tarp. “Little help?”   
   
Ryan fished around the scaffolding, drawing the tarp back and securing it to an upright post as Castle backed through the narrow opening, a cardboard tray carefully balanced on one palm.   
  
“Coffee!” Esposito eagerly grabbed for a cup.   
  
“Canions, Castle?” Beckett slapped Esposito’s hand away. “The large is mine. Two sugars.”   
  
Castle shrugged apologetically and handed off the final coffee to Ryan, “Canions. Our groom . . . not the horse guy . . . is decked out in genuine medieval finery. Round hose and canions.”   
  
“And canions are not tights because . . .?” Ryan raised his eyebrows expectantly.   
  
“Canions are tight-fitting men’s garments that cover the leg from thigh to ankle. Authentic and expensive,” Castle replied. “This guy was no weekend medievalist. Those round hose are hand stitched!”   
  
“And why exactly are you up on your medieval baby legs, Castle?” Esposito sipped his coffee.   
  
“Research, my good detective.”   
  
“You writing historical romances now, Castle?”    
  
 “He doesn’t,” Beckett replied. “But Jameson Rook does.”   
  
“Technically”—Castle shot her a pleased smile—"Victoria St. Clair does.”   
  
Beckett narrowed her eyes, “How do you even know what the vic was wearing, Castle? I thought CSI was still snapping away in there?”   
  
“They were.” Castle pressed his own coffee into Beckett’s hand and rifled through his jacket pockets. He produced a neatly folded paper bag and added sheepishly. “Weber’s powerless in the face of Doughnut Plant.”   
  
Ryan and Esposito shared a stricken look, “You gave our doughnuts . . . to Weber?” Ryan choked.   
  
“I deployed resources where they would do the most good.” Castle shoved the offending bag back into his pocket.   
  
“So what do we have?” Beckett said shortly.  
  
“Not doughnuts.” Ryan looked despondent. Catching Beckett’s glare, he cleared his throat and returned his attention to his notebook. “Not much. Missing horse, tentative ID on our vic, a half-finished castle, and no happily ever after.”   
  
“Who the hell builds a castle in the middle of Central Park?” Esposito leaned against the nearest pile of stone.  
  
“Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux?” Castle gestured south.   
  
“Belvedere Castle,” Beckett added in response to Ryan and Esposito’s puzzled looks. “You know, where Castle tried to kill me in his last book?”   
  
“I was showcasing Nikki Heat’s resourcefulness!” Castle assumed a wounded look.   
  
“So who the hell builds a castle in the middle of Central Park, when there’s already a castle in the middle of Central Park?”    
  
“Wrong kind of castle.” Castle straightened his shoulders, slipping into what Beckett thought of as his authorial pose.

“There’s a right kind?” she muttered.    
  
“Oh so very right, Detective.” He grinned and smoothly went on. “Belvedere is a classic Victorian folly. Gothic architecture sitting cheek by jowl with Romanesque. Completely inauthentic. This,” Castle turned to rap on the the completed portion of the wall, “is all about authenticity. Just like our vic’s fancy dress. Well.” he reclaimed his coffee from Beckett’s hand, completely failing to hide a self-satisfied smile behind it. “Most of it, anyway.”  
  
“Castle, it’s not even 7 am. It’s 80 degrees. And I have horse shit on my brand new shoes. Out with it.” Beckett swiped a hand across the back of her neck.   
  
“Detective Beckett?” Weber, the lead CSI photographer ducked past the tarp, wiping powdered sugar from his lips. “We’re done shooting the body. It’s all yours.”   
  
Ryan and Esposito turned perfectly synchronized glares on Weber as they brushed past him into the castle’s interior. Weber shrugged and ducked back inside.   
  
Castle caught Beckett’s wrist as she turned to follow, and stepped close behind her. “Don’t you want to know what I found out?”   
  
Beckett fought back a not-unpleasant shiver snaking up her arm in spite of the morning heat. She was more than used to his attempts ( _And yours,_ prompted a still, small voice) at stealing a private moment here and there, but this was . . . direct. Not his usual style. She stopped short and turned to him. “You ok, Castle?”  
  
Castle blinked, all-too-temporarily at a loss for words. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”   
  
“You look tired.” She tilted her head, considering. “And worried.”   
  
“Tired? Me?” His usual, glib grin appeared briefly, then faltered. He looked down to find himself still grasping her wrist.   
  
Beckett followed his gaze and missed a beat, caught for a moment by the sight and sensation of skin on skin. Carefully, deliberately, she pulled free. Another beat. She slid her fingers into his and squeezed gently, “Tired,” she said softly. Letting his fingers drop, she smiled. “You’re not usually this transparent.”   
  
Castle smiled down at her, full on, and there went another beat. And another.   
  
“Didn’t you want to show me something, Castle?” She inclined her head toward the scaffolding.  
  
Castle shook himself and propelled her through the opening with his fingertips, “Detective, there are so many, many things I’d like to show you.” 

* * *

  
“. . . cervical dislocation or asphyxiation by hanging,” Lanie waved to Beckett and Castle even as she continued dictating into her voice recorder. “Won’t know which until the PM is complete.” She switched off the recorder. “But I suspect what’s behind door number 1. What is that  _smell_?”   
  
A step behind Beckett, Castle made frantic “cut” motions in the general direction of his friendly neighborhood ME.   
  
“Don’t ask, Lanie. Please, just . . . don’t.” Beckett crouched down next to her friend. “So you think he snapped his neck?”  
  
“Could go either way, but . . . big guy, short drop from high up,” Lanie held up the free end of a wide leather belt. “I like cervical dislocation.” 

  
Castle picked his way through the field of evidence flags to the open kit behind Lanie. He bent down and rifled through it. Lanie’s head swiveled to stare him down. “Uh . . . May I?” He smiled brightly and held up a latex glove.   
  
Beckett bit back a grin and shuffled sideways as Castle leaned in between them, taking the the the belt gingerly in his gloved hand.   
  
“Are you ladies ready for show and tell?” Castle waggled his eyebrows.   
  
“Ooh! Whatcha got, Castle?” Ryan peeked over Lanie’s shoulder.  
  
“So, like I said earlier, our groom’s . . .”   
  
“Not the horse guy.” Beckett and Ryan said together. Lanie rolled her eyes.   
  
“Our groom’s duds are the real deal. Canions, not tights.” Castle plucked the probe dangling from Lanie’s fingers and lifted the hem on the vic’s short, full trousers to reveal the margin of the canions and a strip of pale skin above. Dropping the hem, he indicated the rich embroidery. “Incredibly detailed hand stitching on the round hose.”   
  
“Fascinating,” Beckett rocked back on her ruined heels, “But given that we’re sitting in a castle,  _Castle_ , how does your cosplay enthusiasm get us anywhere?”  
  
Castle’s head dipped closer to Beckett. She gave the barest shake of her head, and he cleared his throat. “I was getting to that. Look here.” He turned the inside of the belt toward the group.  
  
“Writing?” Esposito joined the group.   
  
“Runes.” Beckett peered at the belt. “I’ve seen this.”   
  
“So you  _do_  have the extended editions, Beckett!”   
  
“Is this another nerd thing?” Ryan glanced from Esposito to Lanie.  
  
“Gotta be.” Lanie replied. “Care to clue us in, you two?”    
  
“I know this!” Esposito grinned excitedly, “It’s Aragorn’s sword belt!”   
  
“Baudrier.” Castle corrected. “It’s a movie replica, not a replica . . . replica,” he explained for the benefit of the others.  
  
“So if the murder weapon doesn’t belong to the groom . . . ” Beckett and Castle straightened at the same time.  
  
“. . . It might belong to the murderer,” he finished. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to the Nikki Heat tie-in novels, in case you're worried about being spoiled for those.

  
  
Beckett glanced at her watch.  _7:45 and four impossible things already._  She scowled at the empty chair by her desk. Esposito and Ryan had stayed behind at the crime scene. They'd divide and conquer on the interviews. Between the construction crew, the wedding planner's staff, and Central Park's contact people, they'd be lucky to finish early enough to grab a late dinner.  
  
She'd followed the ME van back to the precinct to handle the formal ID and next-of-kin interviews. Castle, of course, had fallen into step beside her after she'd left Esposito and Ryan to it.  


* * *

_  
"Worker bees at the precinct forwarded me the press on this wedding, Castle." She pressed send, forwarding the email to his phone. "And now you have it. The bride-to-be is Audra Winnert . . . ."  
  
"Winnert? THE Winnerts?" Castle whistled low and glanced back through the trees at the turret just visible against the bright blue morning. "Suddenly, the castle seems understated."  
  
"Serious money, serious influence," Beckett agreed. "Anyway, Audra, now 29, has apparently been planning this wedding for 20 years."  
  
Castle scrolled through Beckett's message. "The Lifestyle section ran a 4-page spread on the wedding. Complete with excerpts from her three-_ hundred _-page wedding scrapbook. Images, research, storyboards . . . What does she do for a living?"  
  
"She's a Winnert, Castle. She doesn't _ do _anything."  
  
"Shame. I wonder if she'd be interested in writing those Victoria St. Clair tie-in novels Gina's been after me about."  
  
Beckett's spine stiffened at the mention of Castle's double-ex. Biting back a comment, she said, "This interview should be right up your alley, then. One eternal child to another."  
  
"Interview." Castle glanced at his phone again. "Yeah, Beckett would you mind if I skipped that? Got a . . . thing . . . I have to take care of."   
  
Castle was so absorbed in his phone, I took him a minute to realize Beckett had stopped in her tracks, "A _ thing _? You're telling me that you_ don't _want in the room on these interviews?"_  
  
Finally, something in her tone dragged his attention away from the phone, "Course I do, but this . . . thing. I'll catch up with you later back at the 12, 'kay?"  
  
Beckett stared after him, open-mouthed.

* * *

  
“Detective. A word.” It wasn’t a request. Gates didn’t really do requests. Beckett hadn’t even realized that the Captain was already in. She wondered, not for the first time, if Gates actually lived in her office. Or had some kind of supervillain lair beneath the precinct. “Detective. Now.”   
  
“Yes, sir.” Beckett turned her back on the empty chair and followed Gates into her office.   
  
“I assume I don’t need to tell you that the Winnert case requires special handling?”   
  
_But you_ are _telling me, aren’t you?_  Beckett kept her face neutral, despite her irritation. “Technically, sir, it’s the Grayson case.”   
  
“And who is coming in to ID the body, Detective?” Gates did not invite Beckett to sit.   
  
“The victim’s fianceé and her father.”   
  
“Clayton Winnert owns half of New York.”    
  
“Does he own the 12th, sir?” Beckett shot back before she could think better of it.   
  
Gates compressed her already-nonexistent lips, “He does not, Detective. I do. And I’m telling you to bring your A-game to this case.”   
  
“Only game we have, sir.” Beckett returned her captain’s level stare.   
  
“Fair enough,” Gates relaxed ever-so-slightly, “I’m not trying to tell you your business, Beckett, but where Clayton Winnert goes, the press goes. And not just the paparazzi. I don’t want to see unflattering pictures of my people on page 1.”  
  
“Understood.” Beckett turned to go.  
  
“And Detective? That includes Mr. Castle.”   


* * *

  
  
“A  _thing_?” Lanie leaned back in her office chair.   
  
“That’s what he said,” Beckett shrugged.   
  
“What is up with that man these days?”  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“Kate, please.” Lanie shook her head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”   
  
“Noticed, what?” Beckett folded her arms tightly across her chest.   
  
“It’s June. When have you ever known Castle to be in New York this time of year?” Lanie ticked off her first point and raised a second finger. “And when have you known him to show up at a scene looking like he did this morning?”   
  
“Like what?” An image of Castle, playful mask down for once, flicked through Beckett’s memory.   
  
“Like he’d been ridden hard and put away wet.” Lanie’s palms hit the desk. “You didn’t!”   
  
“I . . . what?” Beckett shook her head, trying to banish the several dozen inappropriate thoughts that crowded her mind.   
  
“You didn’t.” Lanie’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t need to remind you that when you do . . .”   
  
“Do? No one is  _doing_  anyone, Lanie!”   
  
“You don’t have to tell  _me_  that.” Movement in the reception area caught Lanie’s eye. “Ok. Showtime.” Lanie rose and stepped through her office door.   
  
Beckett pushed herself out of the chair and took a moment to center.   
  
“Mr. Winnert, I’m Dr. Parish, medical examiner’s office. We appreciate your coming down.” She held out a hand toward Kate. “This is Detective Beckett.”   
  
“Sir, thank you for your time.” Beckett filed Winnert’s handshake under exceptionally firm. “Can we offer you something while we wait for your daughter?”   
  
“My daughter is not here, Detective Beckett, nor will she be.”   
  
“Mr. Winnert, Audra is listed as Mr. Grayson’s next of kin. We need . . .”   
  
“You need an ID. I can give you an ID. And if it’s not Philip, Audra doesn’t need to know anything about this,” Winnert replied.   
  
“As I’m sure you’re aware, sir, the press was all over the scene this morning, your daughter . . .”  
  
“Detective, I have spent almost 30 years protecting my daughter from the press.” He looked around. “Let’s get this done, shall we?”   


* * *

  
  
Castle had made record time getting back to the loft. The empty loft. He checked his phone for the 15th time. It stubbornly refused to display any word from Alexis in response to his text:  _Need to talk. Wait for me. OMW._  
  
He leaned against the door and eyed the bar. Both the clock and the sun insisted that it was far too early for even an eye-opener, let alone the this-many-fingers of scotch he was feeling more than ready to put away.   
  
_Coffee_ , he thought,  _Coffee is what real people drink in the morning, and we are pretending to be a real people._  
  
He trudged over to the counter and picked up the thermal carafe. Empty. Castle stared into the carafe's black, cruel, empty depths. There was a real possibility that he might cry.   
  
Autopilot took over and led him through the motions to make another pot. He slumped into a stool at the breakfast bar and swiped at his phone. No text. No call.  _Not from Alexis, anyway._  Almost against his will, his thumb tapped the icon opening his mail. He scrolled past Beckett's case notes to the email from Rudy, his very favorite concierge:  
  
_  
_Guest:_ Ashley Linden  
  
_Check-In Date:_ June 9, 2012  
  
_Check-Out Date:_ June 11, 2012  
  
_Secured by:_ AmEx ****-******-4365 (A. Castle, signature)  
  
  
Mr. Castle:  
We are delighted to have a guest of yours staying with us. I have taken the liberty of upgrading Ms. Linden to a suite. Please do not hesitate to contact me of there is anything we can do to make her more comfortable during her stay.  
Sincerely,  
Rudolph Floyd  
_  
  
It wasn't that Alexis was booking rooms at the Plaza for ( _with?_ ) her ex-boyfriend . . . ( _Ok, it was _totally_  that. Plus!  _ex_ -boyfriend, right?_) But she hadn't told him. She'd always told him  _everything_ , even the things he'd quietly ( _Sometimes not so quietly._ ) freaked out about and wished he didn't know. She'd told him. Always.   
  
The hollow slurp of the coffee finishing its brew cycle drew Castle momentarily out of his funk. He weighed the horror of entering his office against the horror of drinking coffee out of something other than his favorite mug. The mug won.   
  
Steeling himself, he flung open the office door, lunged through, and grabbed air at the corner of the desk, where his mug wasn't. He mentally reviewed his movements during Beckett's phone call. He'd straightened up his work space ( _Ha! Work. Right._ ), like always, but no mug. His fingers absently probed the tender spot at the base of his skull where his head had hit the window sill when he’d fallen back in the chair.   
  
_Shit_ , he thought as he dropped to his knees and scurried behind the desk.  _Pleasenotmymugpleasenotmymug._  His hands raked over the floor. Under the chair. Under the desk. Behind the easel.  _SHIT_. 

  
 Castle sank back on his heels. The mug lay in three pieces. He was  _definitely_  going to cry.   
  
At that exact moment, there was a knock at the door—an ominous, insistent knock—and his phone rang. Moving as little as humanly possible, Castle slid the phone from his pocket, thumbed the ringer off, and tapped “Accept.”   
  
“Beckett.” he whispered hoarsely. “You have to help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PG at this point (mild language), although future chapters may include not-for-kids nookie (if the characters play nice). Outlook for nookie not currently great. It seems to want to be a case-based story, despite the fact that they are both so pretty and should definitely be getting it on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castle and Beckett seemed determined to spend time apart until the end of this chapter. They're so pretty. They should spend more time together.

 

 

* * *

Lanie pulled the drawer out, folding the sheet back from the vic's face with business-like efficiency.

"Take your time, Mr. Winnert," Beckett said quietly, "I know . . ."

"That is Philip Grayson," Winnert interrupted. He turned and lay his briefcase on the lab counter. The snap as the dual latches disengaged bounced off the stainless steel. "A recent set of dental records to confirm." Winnert tossed the file folder on the counter, then snapped the briefcase closed again.

 _What_ _the_ _hell?_  Lanie mouthed to Beckett.

"Mr. Winnert, why do you have Mr. Grayson's dental records?" Beckett tried to keep her tone neutral.

"I know that visual identification is only one step of the process," Winnert took a step toward the door, "I like to be prepared."

"I mean why do you have them at all?" Beckett stepped into his path.

"Ms. Beckett, let me save us both some time: I know everything there was to know about Philip Grayson. I know he played second base in little league. I know that he had his appendix out when he was 14. His first girlfriend was brunette named Celia, 10th grade. He slept on the left side of the bed and preferred chunky peanut butter over creamy," Winnert took another step closer to the door and right into Beckett's personal space, "He was utterly  _common,_ and other than myself, I don't know of a single person who would've wanted him dead."

"Other than you?" Beckett didn't give an inch of ground.

"Other than me. And since I did not kill him, I have nothing else to say to you," Winnert sidestepped Beckett and made his way through the door.

"Mr. Winnert, we will need to speak with your daughter. I understand that you'll need some time as a family . . ."

"My daughter cannot help you and you  _will_ leave her alone," Winnert stabbed the elevator button.

"No, Mr. Winnert, I will not leave her alone. I will not leave  _anyone_  connected with this case alone until we find Mr. Grayson's murderer."

Winnert didn't bother to turn around. He stepped into the elevator and was gone.

Beckett spun to face Lanie, whose eyebrows were as far north as they could go, "What the hell was that?"

" _Ms._?"

"I know!"

"Does the word  _armed_  mean anything to you, Mr. High and Mighty?" Lanie stomped around, slamming instruments on to the tray by the autopsy table.

Beckett scowled, "So, we've got a positive ID on Grayson, a good sense of how, exactly, Clayton Winnert treats the little people, and . . . nothing else."

"Not nothing," Lanie replied, "That man does  _not_ want you to talk to his daughter."

* * *

"You cannot just haul Audra Winnert down here for questioning."

"Why not, sir? Because she's rich? Because her father's powerful?" Beckett was spoiling for a fight. "She's the victim's fiancée. He father admitted to wanting Grayson dead. I need to interview her before we lose any more daylight."

"Because I have already had one call from the Governor's office this morning," Gates was maddeningly calm. "Detective Beckett, what do you know about Audra Winnert?"

"I know her father doesn't want me to talk to her, which usually means he knows that  _she_  knows something."

"What do you know about  _her_?" Gates persisted.

Beckett mentally reviewed the email from earlier. Just a handful of articles, all variations on the fairy-tale wedding theme, clearly drawn from the same material. All dated 4 months ago. And she'd asked for everything, "Not much," Beckett admitted.

"When Audra Winnert was 7 years old, her mother sent her to her room to change into her best dress. Said she had a big surprise for her. Audra waited as long as she could, then ran down to her mother's room. Found her mother hanging in the closet."

"That's . . . I didn't know," Beckett swallowed hard, "Why didn't research turn that up?"

"The Winnert influence goes back a long way," Gates slid a thin file folder across the desk, "A  _long_  way. His people kept it as quiet as possible."

Beckett flipped open the folder. Nothing but a few photocopies of faded articles. A short column in the  _Journal_ with an oblique reference to Winnert's loss. A terse obituary. No overt reference to suicide. No mention of a traumatized little girl. One photo of the Claire Liddell Winnert—maybe a yearbook photo—of a porcelain-skinned blonde with enormous eyes and a fragile smile. "What happened to Audra. After?" Beckett's voice was hard. Professional.

"There are rumors: Her father shipped her off to an institution. Bought live-in psychiatric care. Sent her away to be raised by some nanny or another. All anyone knows for sure is that Audra Winnert was kept absolutely out of the public eye for over 20 years," Gates leaned back in her chair, "Until 4 months ago."

"That doesn't make any sense," Beckett tapped the edge of the folder against her knee, "Not a word about her in the press, not a picture,  _nothing_ for 20 years and then . . . Sir, this doesn't sit right. I  _have_  to interview her."

"I never said you shouldn't interview her, Detective, I said you couldn't haul her down  _here,_ " Gates sighed and shook her head.

"Then I'll go to Westchester. Interview her at home," Beckett's skin itched at the thought.

"Clayton Winnert is  _not_  a fan of yours, Detective . . ."

Beckett grit her teeth, "If you think it's best, I can send Ryan. Esposito probably wouldn't fit in out there . . ."

"Detective!" Gates barked, "I wasn't finished. Mr. Winnert is no fan of yours," She slid a photograph out from under her desk blotter, "But as it happens, he  _is_ a fan of Mr. Castle's."

* * *

"Castle, are you in the closet?" Beckett punched the door release on her key fob, swapping her phone to her left ear.

"Beckett," Castle inched his way under the desk. The heavy wood should muffle the sound of his voice even . . . "What? Am I  _what_?"

"You sound like you're in a coffee can," Beckett slid behind the wheel.

"I am in fear for my  _life_ , Beckett," he hissed. "I changed the locks, but that won't stop . . . Oh God, no."

"Castle?" Beckett's hand stilled on the key in the ignition.

"They're here," He whispered urgently, "I'm trapped."

Something in his voice alarmed Beckett. She cranked the key and flipped on her turn signal, pulling into traffic with hardly a glance over her shoulder, " _Who's_  there, Castle? Are you at the loft?"

"Yes! You have to. . . ." Castle was abruptly silent.

Beckett could just make out a familiar female voice in the background, "Is that Martha?" Another voice. Also female. Not Alexis. Older.

"Beckett, just . . ." Castle made a strangled noise, "I need you."

"Tell me something I don't know, Castle," Beckett cut through a narrow gap in traffic to make the light that was just changing, "I'll be there in 10. And you  _will_  tell me what the hell is going on with you."

"Everything. Just  _hurry_ ," The call dropped.

* * *

Beckett's alarm resurfaced as she stepped out of the elevator. The door to Castle's loft stood open, like too many doors at too many crime scenes. Instinctively her hand dropped to her hip. She made her way carefully down the hall, placing her feet soundlessly.

"I have never— _never_ —been so furious with you, Richard," Beckett pulled up just short of the door, placing the voice of the second woman she'd heard over the phone with sudden, sickening clarity.  _Gina._ _"_ And  _that_  is saying something."

"Gina, dear, can I offer you something? I think I smell fresh coffee," Beckett could hear the strain beneath Martha's bright tone.

"No thank you, Martha," Gina all but snapped, "I'm sorry, but could I trouble you to give Richard and me some privacy?"

Of its own volition, Beckett's fist swung up to rap sharply on the door frame, "Castle, we don't have all day," She kept one foot in the hall as she stepped into the doorway, "Good morning, Martha. Ms. Griffin. I'm sorry to interrupt."

Gina's lips twisted unpleasantly for a fraction of a second before she could arrange her face into a well-practiced, insincere smile, "Gina, please."

"Gina," Beckett nodded. "Castle?"

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't spare Richard right now, Detective."

"Kate," Beckett mirrored Gina's plastic smile.

Meanwhile,  _Richard_  was already scooping his keys off the hall table and shrugging his jacket on. He brushed by Martha under the pretext of kissing her cheek. Beckett watched her pale by a shade or two as Castle caught her hand in a white-knuckled grip and said something in her ear.

" _Richard_ ," Gina stamped her foot, "If you walk out that door, I will . . ."

Castle's hand tightened on Beckett's shoulder, then fell away. He turned back to face Gina, "You'll what?"

Before that exact moment, Beckett would have sworn she'd experienced every one of the many moods of Castle. This was something new altogether. His face was an absolute blank.

Judging from Gina's almost audible blink, this was new to her, too.

"Don't come back. Don't call," Castle's words dropped one by one into the heavy silence, "And do  _not_  use my mother or Alexis to get around me. You'll have it when you have it." He turned and propelled Beckett into the hallway.

* * *

"I would've let you drive," Castle mumbled against his own fist as he stared out the window of Beckett's Crown Vic.

Beckett let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. They were 15 minutes out of the city, and this was the first complete sentence he'd uttered since she'd insisted they take her car. She'd recapped what little they knew without a single interruption.  _Fifth_ _impossible_ _thing_. Her attempts to bait him about Winnert's being a fan and Gates not-quite-admitting they needed Castle's help on this one had been met with two identical, humorless snorts.

"It's an interview, Castle. Not exactly a Ferrari occasion."

"It's Westchester. Every day is a Ferrari occasion," He winced as the road curved, bringing the sun head on, "You aren't going to ask?"

"Ask what?" Beckett eased the car into the left lane.

"What's wrong with me?"

"We're just going to Westchester, Castle," Beckett glanced over at him, "We don't have that kind of time."

His yawn devolved into a guffaw.

"You can tell . . ." Beckett began after a moment or two of more comfortable silence.

"I don't know how it ends," He blurted at the same moment. They looked at each other, eyes wide.

"Ah," Beckett turned back to the road.

"I  _always_  know how it ends," Castle slumped against the door again. "And Alexis . . . "

"What about Alexis?"

"She's planning a . . . tryst."

"A tryst?" Beckett's tone was skeptical.

"A  _tryst_. A  _rendezvous_. A  _liaison,_ _"_ He knocked his head against the window, "A  _booty_ _call_."

"Alexis," Beckett couldn't quite suppress a laugh, though she could tell he was serious. "With who?  _Whom?_ " She corrected herself before he could transform into grammar cop.

"Ashley."

"I thought they broke up moths ago?" Beckett watched the Hudson recede off to her left.

"So did I, until I got an email from my favorite concierge asking if he could do anything to make Ms. Linden's stay this weekend more magical," Castle breathed heavily on the window and traced a string of  _R_ s into the fog.

"You're paying to have this thing detailed," She scolded, then added nonchalantly, "It may not be what you think, Castle. And if it is, she's 18 . . ."

"When she was 9, I came home and found her sobbing in front of the television," He pulled his sleeve taut and absently polished the smudges from the window, "It took her half an hour to calm down enough to talk. I kept making stupid jokes. Just made her cry harder."

"I know the feeling," Beckett bit her lip and kept her eyes on the horizon, but she could see his lop-sided grin out of the corner of her eye. Another knot in her shoulders loosened just a little.

"I shut up eventually. Just held her. Listened to her breathe," He leaned his head back, "She tried to tell me she was fine, but she had these hiccups. 'I'm fine . . . HIC . . . Daddy'," Castle opened his eyes just enough to watch his favorite grin break out on Beckett's face, "I told her she could tell me anything. Always."

"Well," Beckett prompted, "Did she tell you?"

"She did," He turned away, hiding his own grin. Making her wait.

"Castle!"

"My beautiful little girl was crying her eyes out because she was in love with Tom Welling. She couldn't bear the thought that she'd never be able to tell him," Castle's smile faded, and his eyes fell closed again, but some of the tired lines around his eyes had been smoothed away, "When she falls, she falls."

"Like her dad?" It slipped out before she could stop herself. Castle was quiet for a long moment. She hoped against hope that he'd dozed off.

"No, not like me," His voice was almost inaudible, "I always know where the exits are."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4. So talky. So expository. So hard to write. I don't know why these two won't just find somewhere dark and quiet and get busy, but they're into the case.

  
"Thanks, Lanie," Beckett peered through the French doors. She'd stepped out on to the patio to take Lanie's call running down the autopsy findings.  
  
 _"How's life among the beautiful people?"_  Lanie raised her voice so she'd be heard above the rushing water of the lab sink.  
  
Beckett watched as Audra Winnert slid a book off a nearby shelf and hugged it to her chest. Her long blonde hair fanned forward as she dipped her head shyly.  
  
Castle gave a small smile as he gestured to the book Anyone who didn't know him as well as Beckett did might've called it shy. Beckett knew he reserved it for moments when he was pleased. Unguarded and truly pleased.  
  
Beckett sighed, "Weird, Lanie. Things among the beautiful people are weird."  
  
 _"That apply to Castle, too?"_  
  
Almost as though he'd heard his name, Castle turned. He was talking animatedly to Audra Winnert.  
  
Beckett nodded and motioned for him to keep the conversation going. "Castle's just weird, not beautiful."  
  
 _"Mmmmmhmmm,"_  Lanie laughed,  _"Come find me when you're back in the city. I'll have hard copies and probably some labs for you."_  
  
"Thanks, Lanie," Beckett tapped to disconnect, but kept the phone to her ear. Truthfully, she wasn't doing much good in the interview.  
  
They'd caught a break: Clayton Winnert was not at home. A worried, tight-lipped housekeeper had shown them up to "Miss Audra's wing."  
  
 _Wing. Of course._  
  
Beckett was trying to be patient. She  _wanted_  to be patient with Audra Winnert, but there was just something about her - a grown woman in an Alice in Wonderland headband surrounded by sketches and swatches she'd chosen in middle school - that Beckett found off putting.  
  
Castle, of course, was in his element. After Audra had choked out monosyllabic answers to her preliminary questions, he'd given Beckett a significant look. She'd flipped her palms upward in the universal sign for  _What do you want from me?_ Mercifully, her phone rang just then, and he surreptitiously shooed her out on to the patio.  
  
Beckett made another circuit, the silent phone to her ear. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Castle and Audra had moved to sit at the large, round table near the patio doors. Castle's fingers danced over the sketches spread out between them. He nodded eagerly as Audra talked.  
  
Castle glanced through the French doors and grinned as he caught Beckett staring. He held up one finger on his left hand as his right caught Audra's. Beckett cursed softly, as she saw Audra's deer-in-headlights look return.  
  
Anticipating Beckett's reaction, Castle raised his palm briefly in her direction. He dipped his head to catch Audra's gaze. She nodded once, hesitantly, and again, more firmly. Castle said something, then turned to Beckett. And there it was again, that quiet, pleased smile. He tapped on the glass beckoned her inside.  
  
"I'm sorry about that Ms. Winnert," Beckett pulled the door closed behind her. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting."  
  
"Not at all, Detective," Audra smiled brightly. A blush crept over her cheeks, "You gave me the chance to meet a . . . a hero."  
  
"Ms. Winnert's a fan," Castle caught Beckett's incredulous look, "Not of Richard Castle. Of Alexander Rodgers," He slipped the book Audra had pulled down earlier off the table and handed it to Beckett.  
  
 _The Fireside West of the Moon & Other Stories,_ R. Alexander Rodgers. Beckett flipped to the back of the dust jacket. She smiled briefly at dramatic author photo. "Fairy tales?"  
  
"Wrote them for Alexis," he said, "Before Tom Welling broke her heart. I think there were only about 100 copies of that published. Pretty sure I have 98 in my storage unit."  
  
Beckett laughed and handed the book back to him.  
  
"They're beautiful stories," Audra said, "Sad, but beautiful."  
  
"They're not all sad! What about the Pickle Prince?" Castle tapped an illustration on the cover.  
  
"Oh, he's the saddest! Hiding behind his funny song and dance," Audra shook her head, "All your characters are lonely, Mr. Castle. Even in the happy ever after."  
  
"Maybe so," Castle sensed that Beckett was growing impatient again and steered the conversation toward the case, "You said you found this at auction. You met your fiancé at an auction, didn't you?"  
  
Beckett leaned forward, too eager for any insight to be annoyed that Castle had obviously made considerable progress without her.  
  
"Yes," Audra's eyes welled up, and a single tear spilled dow her cheek. She looked to Castle, who nodded encouragingly, "When I turned 25, I started my collection. For . . . for the wedding. Costume pieces, furniture, sometimes just research."  
  
"So you and Philip Grayson had been together for . . . four years?" Beckett ignored Castle's exasperated look.  
  
"No . . . Philip . . . Philip," Audra turned her face away, sobbing quietly.  
  
"Take your time, Ms. Winnert," Castle said soothingly as he shot Beckett  _I-Told-You-So-Look-#74._  Beckett stuck out her tongue at him.  
  
Audra produced a delicate lace handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, "I'm . . . I'm sorry."  
  
"Not at all, Ms. Winnert," Castle patted her hand, "Whenever you're ready."  
  
"I started out just bidding online. My father is very . . . protective. But then I realized: No one knew me. No one," she worried the handkerchief between her fingers.  
  
"So you started going to auctions in person?" Beckett asked.  
  
Castle tensed, but Audra went on hesitantly. "I started out just watching, and it was so easy . . . . not to be me," For the first time, Beckett saw a spark of life in Audra Winnert's eye, "People will make up their own story about you if you just let them. They'd assume I was someone's assistant. Or a buyer. It was an adventure. Just like your characters would have, Mr. Castle."  
  
"Undercover work," Castle smiled.  
  
Audra gave a shy smile in return, "I started to get braver. I'd bid, but make sure I didn't win. But then there was Winterfield."  
  
"Winterfield," Castle tapped a finger against his lips thoughtfully, "That's the big estate near Tarrytown, right? I remember reading something about . . . Charles Grace . . . was that his name?"  
  
"The recluse," Beckett replied, "There was some business about two wills. Friend of Esposito's was moonlighting at the house. They needed security 24/7."  
  
"Charles was a collector. There were all these crazy rumors about what he had. For months, Winterfield was all anyone could talk about. No one thought it would ever get sorted out. And then, all of a sudden, they announced that everything would be sold at auction."  
  
"With two wills?" Castle asked, "Isn't that strange?'  
  
"I don't really understand the legal end of it," Audra shrugged, "But the auction . . . it was like nothing I'd ever seen. Hundreds of people. So loud. I was . . . very nervous. I almost left, but then . . . I was reckless that day."  
  
"Reckless?" Castle jumped in before Beckett could, shooting a glance her way. Easy. Let me . . .  
  
"During the walk through, something about one of those crates . . . the one that turned out to have your stories in it, Mr. Castle," Audra leaned forward, tucking her hair behind her ears, "I just had this feeling that I had to have it."  
  
"A feeling?" Beckett asked, "It wasn't something specific?"  
  
Audra shook her head, "It was a sealed lot auction"  
  
"Like  _Storage Wars!_ " Castle exclaimed.  
  
Audra looked startled. Beckett glared.  
  
"Everyone gets a short time to examine the lots. They can't touch anything and they have to take the whole lot," Castle looked to Audra for confirmation. She nodded.  
  
"And you know this because . . .?" Beckett crossed her arms and leaned against the couch opposite him.  
  
"That," Castle cleared his throat, "Is not important right now. Ms. Winnert, you were telling us about the auction."  
  
"I bid on the crate and I thought I'd win with my first offer. No one seemed interested, and then there was a buyer, not someone I'd seen before. Some amateur, but he kept outbidding me. And then he used his phone! You're not supposed to do that!" The corners of Audra's mouth drew down in an exaggerated frown, making her look even more childlike, "It made me so mad! It wasn't even about the crate anymore. I just didn't want him to win. I kept bidding, and all of a sudden, he just dropped out."  
  
"Right after he used his phone?" Beckett asked.  
  
"No," Audra thought a moment, "He bid twice more. Up to $16,000. Then he just walked out. I knew something wasn't right. I left right after the auction and went to the holding area to find the property manager. I wanted to make arrangements to have the crate delivered right away."  
  
"Not here, though . . . " Castle turned a delighted, conspiratorial grin on Audra. "That would've given away your real story. And you didn't want your father to know. When did he realize you weren't just planning a wedding on paper?"  
  
Audra gave a gleeful clap, "Oh, not for ages! Daddy's so old fashioned. He hardly even knows the Internet exists."  
  
"So you went to find the property manager," Castle leaned forward eagerly.  
  
"Oh! Yes! And there he was," Audra's face darkened. "Skulking in the shadows."  
  
"The buyer. He was going after the crate," Castle's mind was working the plot angles.  
  
"He had a crowbar. I marched right up to him and snatched it out of his hand."  
  
Beckett sized up Audra Winnert:  _All of 5 feet, 2 inches, maybe 115 pounds,_ "You went into a dark, isolated area and confronted a man with a weapon?"  
  
"Oh," Audra gave a shaky laugh, "I realized I should have been terrified right after he ran away!"  
  
"He ran away?" Castle looked mildly disappointed.  
  
Beckett tamped down a smile at Castle's expression. He would've written a struggle for the crowbar, probably ending the chapter on a big reveal of the crate's contents after it was smashed as one of them was thrown into it, "Did you report the incident to anyone, Ms. Winnert? The property manager?"  
  
"I . . . I'm embarrassed to say I fainted, Detective Beckett," Audra twisted her handkerchief, "And when I woke up. . . Philip was there, holding my hand "  
  
"Mr. Grayson?" Beckett met Castle's eyes.  
  
"It was fate. He was lost. He stopped . . . " Audra dabbed at her eyes, but the tears were tumbling down her cheeks, "He stopped for directions . . . if he hadn't wandered into the holding area just then. . . . "  
  
Castle saw Beckett shift into interrogation mode and mouthed a single word:  _Don't_. She glared daggers at him for a long moment, then sat back, folding her arms over her chest.  _Fine._  
  
Castle nodded a thank you and touched Audra's wrist lightly, "Ms. Winnert, we know this is hard. Detective Beckett is very, very good at what she does. And we want to find out who did this to Philip. Do you think you can help us, Audra?"  
  
Audra raised her head to meet Castle's eyes. Her nose was streaming, her skin was covered with ugly blotches, and her breath came in jagged gasps. She opened her mouth to reply when a voice cut in.  
  
"As I explained to Detective Beckett this morning, my daughter cannot help you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written after "Cuffed" aired. My A/N's amuse me. 
> 
> I don't think there's anything in the story that would spoil anyone beyond "Cops & Robbers"; so even though I'm making reference to the status of 'Splanie and the Alexis/Ashley relationship, I have no knowledge of how those things (or anything Casketty, for that matter) will go for the rest of Season 4. Speaking of Caskett, I, for one, would strongly prefer that they hole up somewhere together and get naked, but they seem to be intent on pursuing this case.

 

A blast radius had opened up around Beckett and her mostly empty murder board, which was probably safer for everyone concerned. She ignored the ding of the elevator doors, assuming that whoever it was would pick up on the  _Stay the Hell Away_  vibe. Then the smell hit her.

"You two had better have something for me besides that stench," Beckett said without turning around.

"We found the horse," Beckett could hear Ryan's grin.

" _I_ , found the horse," Esposito sounded like he was in almost as good a mood as she was. She turned around. His light blue guayabera shirt was missing the 5 bottom buttons, and it was smeared all over with . . . something. His right hand was wrapped in gauze, and angry-looking abrasions streaked his arm, disappearing into the tattered remains of his shirtsleeve. Both knees had been ripped out of his pants. And he was missing a shoe.

"What else?" Beckett demanded, folding her arms over her chest.

Esposito looked like he was about to protest, but thought better of it. "Not much. I followed horse sightings all morning. Tracked him down near the lake. Spooked, but fine."

"Interviewed damned near everyone: Construction crew, wedding planner and her staff, Park Conservancy Contact," Ryan dropped a folder on his desk, "Everyone hates the wedding planner, Clayton Winnert is a slave driver, Audra Winnert is," he flipped open the folder and scanned a page of notes, "Let's see . . . 'sweet,' 'nice,' 'darling,' 'a doll, but a little kooky,' 'precious,' 'cute,' 'naive,' 'innocent,' 'too trusting,' and 'nice enough, but not all there, if you know what I mean'."

"What about Philip Grayson?" Beckett gestured to the vic's photo on the murder board.

"No one had much to say about him," Esposito said, "Except for the groom . . ."

"Horse . . ." Ryan winced at Beckett's look of death, "Guy. Um . . . Andrew Reed. Seemed to be the only one who knew anything about Grayson. Otherwise, it seemed like this was Audra Winnert's party and the vic was just along for the ride. How 'bout you? Is Audra Winnert just the sweetest or what?"

"And where the hell's Castle now?" Esposito added.

"Yeah, what is  _up_ with him lately?" Ryan sank into his desk chair.

" _Castle_ ," Beckett injected ice into the two syllables,"is in Westchester, probably having high tea with Audra Winnert in her  _wing_. Meanwhile, I've got Gates hamstringing me, Clayton Winnert stonewalling me, so about the only thing I can tell you about Audra Winnert is that she'll drop $16,000 on a crate of fairy tale maybes and can't string together three sentences without an attack of the vapors."

"So, I shouldn't put you down for 'nice'?" Ryan quipped.

"Bro, that was your outside-your-head-voice," Esposito whispered

Beckett ignored them, "I'm headed to Lanie to go over autopsy results. I want our horse guy here in one hour."

"Already on his way, boss," Ryan called after her rapidly retreating back.

* * *

Castle leaned against the well-cushioned, high-backed seats of the town car and closed his eyes. Given the homeopathic amounts of sleep he'd gotten over the last few weeks - and his fondness for swanky cars driven by someone else - he should have been right out.

 _No such luck._ He dug out his phone and listened to the voice mail again.

 _Dad! We were in the subway and I just had like 5 texts from you pop up. I'm sorry we missed each other. Is this about Gina? You know I won't say a thing, but watch out for Gram!_ She  _can be bought. And, Dad? Don't worry about the ending. It's there. You just have to let it write itself._ Voices clamored in the background. He could hear her muffled voice, "Jeez, give me two seconds, Paige! It's my dad!"  _Sorry, Dad. Anyway, the bus is here so I'd better go. Love you! See you Friday._

He tapped the voice mail closed and scrolled to his calendar. There it was. The traitorous pink box spanning two days  _Alexis: Habitat Trip_.  _Notes: Miss you, Dad!_

Had he signed something? She didn't need him to sign anything any more. As Beckett had pointed out, his little girl was somehow 18.  _And how the hell did that happen, anyway?_

She'd obviously told him about the trip. He searched his decidedly fuzzy memories of the last few weeks and unearthed a half-remembered conversation.

" _I don't have to go . . ."_

 _He'd kissed her on the forehead and smoothed away the frown lines with his fingertips_.  _"Of course you should go, sweetie. Save the world."_

" _Not the world. Just rural South Carolina. And maybe you need me more right now. Are you eating?"_

" _I eat!"_

_She planted her fists on her hips and suddenly there was his own skeptical look staring back at him, "Anything defined as 'food' outside a school lunch program?"_

" _Hey, who's the dad here?"_

" _You are, but I'm the grown up," she shook her finger at him, "I'm going to go on this trip, but my minions will be watching. And if I find out that you're not taking care of yourself, I'm going to hitch-hike all the way back to New York."_

" _You have minions?"_

" _Of course. You got them for me for my twelfth birthday," she dropped her chin on to his shoulder and snaked her arms around his waist, "I really don't have to go, Dad."_

_He buried his nose in her hair, "I want you to go. I know I've been a bear to live with lately. It'll give me some time to get my act together. But I'll miss you like crazy."_

" _I'll miss you, too," she tipped her head back and smiled up at him, "But I'll bring you a present!"_

" _Oooh! Something tacky?"_

" _Super tacky!"_

When had that been? Two weeks ago? Three? She'd obviously realized that he was in one of his completely useless phases, so she'd entered it into his calendar herself.

She did not, Castle couldn't help but notice, pencil in nookie with her ex-boyfriend. And he was pretty sure that even in completely useless mode, he'd have remembered a conversation about  _that_.

Well, at least worrying about his daughter's virtue was taking his mind of worrying about . . .  _Damn._ Castle knocked his head against the back of the seat. The car's intercom chimed and he started, smacking his head on the roof of the town car. Heart pounding, he fumbled for the button, "Yes?"

"Mr. Castle, I'm seeing some pretty heavy traffic on the Hudson Parkway, is there an alternate route you'd like me to take?"

"Hudson?" Castle scrubbed at his eyes, "Oh, don't take me  _home_!"

There was an impeccably well-bred pause, "Sir?"

"I told you to take me home, didn't I . . . . James? It's James, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. You did."

"Sorry. Couldn't resist," Castle mumbled sheepishly, "Can you take me to the 12th precinct? The Drive's probably best."

"Of course, sir," the intercom chimed again, leaving Castle alone with his thoughts.  _Great._

He slouched into the seat and closed his eyes. What seemed like a minute later, his phone vibrated. His head made contact with the car roof again. He fumbled the phone out and tapped on the text alert.

_Dude. WTH are you? - Ryan_

Castle swallowed his disappointment that it wasn't from Alexis. His thumbs flew over the keyboard:  _OMW. Beckett still pissed?_

 _With Lanie now. Wear a cup._  - Ryan

Castle stuffed the phone back in his pocket and pressed his face against the window. The sign for 42nd street faded into the distance. He tapped the intercom. "Change of plans, James. Can you let me out at the next corner?"

* * *

"That's it? A hickey?" Beckett slapped the folder of autopsy findings closed.

"A hickey and a broken neck," Lanie held up one index finger, " _Which_  I called at the scene, thank you."

"No defensive wounds?"

Lanie shook her head, "Just the partially healed abrasions on the inner thighs and buttocks, but those are a few weeks old."

Beckett tipped her head back, pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, "Anything in the labs? Please tell me there's something in the labs."

"Nothing that would explain why he didn't fight back when someone strung him up."

Beckett growled at the ceiling, "No one knows  _anything_ about this guy. He's like a department store dummy or something."

"What about your horse guy?" Lanie asked.

Beckett raised an eyebrow, "You talked to Esposito?"

"Please," Lanie waved the idea away, "Ryan texted me pictures of  _el vaquero_ and gave me the heads up _._ "

"The heads up on . . . ?"

"Your mood," Lanie met Beckett's glare with a level gaze, "Don't give me that look, girl. You don't scare me. You lost your cool this morning. "

"I lost my cool," Beckett nodded, "And in Westchester, I would've lost it again if it weren't . . ."

"If it weren't for Castle," Lanie prompted, "You're good together."

Beckett started to say something, then changed her mind, "I gotta get back to the precinct."

"So you can lose your cool with one of two people in the whole wide world who might know a damned thing about your vic?"

"Look, I'll do my deep breathing. I'll walk back to the precinct . . ." Beckett stopped midway through pushing herself up out of the chair, "Two people?

"Philip Grayson wasn't drunk or drugged, but he was  _was_  taking an SSRI," Lanie grinned.

"Prozac?" Beckett leaned forward. "That means . . ."

"Philip Grayson had a shrink," Castle finished from the doorway.

* * *

"Let me know when you've set up an interview," Beckett ended the call and pocketed her phone, "Esposito's reaching out to Grayson's . . ."

"I can't believe you're mad at me," Castle interrupted.

"I am not  _mad_  at you, Castle, I'm working," Beckett pulled her hair off her neck and twisted. She looked around a moment, then reached inside Castle's jacket. She plucked a pencil out of the inside pocket and stabbed it through her makeshift French twist. "God, it's hot."

Castle stopped, then had to run to catch up to her, "You wanted me to leave with you? Insult the man? Give him even more reason to stand in the way of the investigation?"

"No, Castle, I wanted you to sip scotch and smoke cigars with Clayton Winnert while I got kicked to the curb by a butler," Beckett stopped and whirled to face him.

"Valet, actually," Castle's British accent was terrible, "It's a Wodehouse . . . but, that's not important here. What's important is that I was  _not_  sipping scotch or smoking cigars . . ."

Beckett leaned abruptly toward him and inhaled.

"Ok, I had  _one_ scotch. To keep Clayton Winnert happy so I could set up a meeting with Audra,  _away_  from him."

"When?" Beckett narrowed her eyes.

"This evening," Castle said quickly, "She's coming to your apartment."

"My _apartment_?" Beckett started walking again.

"Well, the precinct is out. So are most public places," Castle could never quite understand how he was always running to keep up a woman several inches shorter than him. In 4-inch heels, no less.

"What's wrong with your loft?" Beckett threw an annoyed glance over her shoulder, "Haven't had the exterminator out to deal with the ex-wife problem."

"Gina won't be back any time soon." There was that blank tone again.

Beckett's conscience tugged, "Sorry. That was . . . out of line. I appreciate your help on this, Castle."

"Yeah," He turned away and busied himself by repeatedly jamming on the button for the crosswalk. He was still stabbing at it when the light changed.

"Have you heard from Alexis?" Beckett grabbed his elbow and set out at a less punishing pace.

"Voice mail," Castle kept his eyes on the ground, "She's on her way to South Carolina to build homes for the less fortunate."

"You didn't call her back?" Beckett asked after it was clear he wasn't going to volunteer anything else.

"Not really a conversation I want to have with  _99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall_  going on in the background."

He caught Beckett's skeptical look, "Ok, fine, I've tried calling about a hundred times, but apparently the 4G is terrible in the Blue Ridge Mountains."

"That's why they call them the less fortunate, Castle," Beckett shook her head and smiled as they drew up to the doors of the twelfth, "Ok, let's go see a horse guy about a guy."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Be aware that there's a spoiler for Heat Rises in this chapter, if you care about those things.

 

 

* * *

"Guess those two kissed and made up," Ryan remarked as he watched Beckett and Castle act out a familiar scene on the other side of the one-way glass. Currently, Beckett was frowning hard into a folder, pretending to be annoyed as Castle's mouth ran a mile a minute.

"Good for them," Esposito answered, turning to lean his back against the glass as Beckett's grin finally won out and she bopped Castle on the nose with the folder, "Better for us, bro."

"Amen, bro," Ryan held out a palm and Esposito returned the secret handshake.

"What are we celebrating boys?" Beckett stifled a laugh at the way they both jumped.

"N-nothing," Ryan smoothed his tie, "What's up? Need something before we show the gr . . . Mr. Reed into the box?"

"Castle says he's technically the Marshal. Groom's a generic underling," Beckett stepped into the space between them and peered through the glass.

The door to the box opened and a uniform ushered Andrew Reed to the chair opposite Castle. Esposito and Ryan exchanged glances over Beckett's head.

"Boss?" Ryan said tentatively.

"Just the opening act, Ryan," Beckett gestured to Esposito, "Sound?"

"Yeah, we were just giving you and Castle . . . sound!" Esposito turned to the console and quickly navigated through control panels. Castle's voice poured through the speakers.

" . . . to thank you for your time. Detective Ryan said you were very helpful this morning. Sorry to drag you down here," Castle rose to shake Reed's hand.

"Sure," Reed perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair.

"My partner, Detective Beckett, will be just a few minutes. Can I get you anything? Water? Espresso?"

"No, no thank you," Reed folded his hands tightly on the table in front of him, "You're . . . not a cop?"

"No, I'm a consultant, and . . ." Castle leaned in and lowered his voice, "Well, I'm really a writer, Mr. Reed, and I am in  _awe_  of your résumé: Special thanks from Ariana Franklin, a  _dedication_ from Alys Clare . . . and is it true you turned Ken Follet down flat?"

"Novelists," Beckett said before Ryan and/or Esposito could ask, "Medieval novelists. Castle thought Reed's name sounded familiar. He called around, and it turns out that this fairy tale wedding is a rinky dink affair compared to the circles Reed usually travels in."

" . . . and the mechanical horses in the battle scenes from  _Braveheart_! That was you?" Castle leaned back in his chair.

Reed gave a nervous smile and his hands relaxed slightly, "The horse movements and some of the formations, but not . . . not the armor. I quit when they wouldn't listen about the armor."

" _Braveheart_ 's . . . what, '96? This guy couldn't have been more than 20 then," Esposito said.

"It was '95. Andrew Reed was 23," Beckett watched Reed gradually unwind as Castle kept up the apparent small talk.

"I've only just started looking at the financials on this wedding," Ryan tapped a bulging folder on the conference table, "But I don't remember any Hollywood-sized checks made out to Reed."

"Maybe his bubble burst between then and now," Esposito shrugged, "Gotta be an expensive business. And working for Clayton Winnert has still gotta be a pretty payday."

"If he's turning down Ken Follet mini-series, I doubt it's the money," Beckett's attention was still on the box.

" . . . can't be the money," Castle slipped a photograph from one of the folders and pushed it across the desk toward Reed, "And given the mishap with one of the horses — gorgeous animal, by the way — I'm assuming that you didn't have the influence and control you'd normally demand, so I'm curious . . ."

"What's this?" Reed tapped the photograph.

"Your horse. The one Detective Esposito recovered — it's a Belgian, isn't it? — don't worry, it was completely unharmed. Which is more than I can say for . . ."

"This isn't my horse," Reed's color rose. "And, yes, it's a Belgian heavy cavalry horse.  _Why_ would I have a 17th century horse at a medieval castle?"

"Uh . . ." Castle glanced toward the mirror.

"Dude," Ryan looked at Esposito, aghast, "You wrangled the wrong horse."

"I wrangled the horse in front of me," Esposito absently rubbed at the bandage on his hand.

_Six. And I never had breakfast._ Beckett swore under her breath and made a beeline for the door into the box, "Mr. Reed, I'm Detective Beckett. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

Anxiety rolled of Reed in waves. His eyes darted around the room. His hands worried the edge of the photograph.  _Quiet, though. Beckett thought. Fretful. Not violent._

"I only agreed to leave the Park because I was  _told_  they had found Brom  _unharmed_  and I  _thought_  I could leave  _one thing_ to the constable"

"Not constable in the cop sense," Castle turned to Beckett, "It's a corruption of 'count of the stable' . . ."

"Castle," Beckett snapped, "I take it there's a problem?"

"Ah . . . yah. This horse that Esposito found? Seems to be an unrelated . . . horse."

Beckett walked to the door and barked out Esposito's name. He was at the doorway before she finished the last syllable. She said a few words in a low voice. He nodded sharply and trotted away. Beckett closed the door again.

Reed half rose from his chair, "I need to . . ."

"Mr. Reed, I know you must be anxious to take care of this yourself," Beckett held up a hand, "But I have my people getting the latest from the scene, and if you can wait for that information to come in, I'll get you an escort back."

"Detective, I don't think you understand. Brom has been wandering god knows where for  _hours_ ," Reed protested, but sank back into his chair.

"Mr. Reed, trust me, if you give her a chance to run down the latest information, Detective Beckett can bend time and space. You'll be back on the spot much quicker than if you left right now," Castle shifted his attention back to the folders on the table, as though Reed's staying was a done deal.

Beckett picked up the cue and took her own seat, "And maybe in the mean time, you can help us figure out where  _this_  horse came from?"

Reed looked from Castle to Beckett and gave a resigned sigh. He pulled the photo closer, "I don't know whose horse this is, but you can bet that Bridget had something to do with it."

"Bridget?" Castle asked.

"The wedding planner," Beckett supplied, "I understand there was some tension between the two of you, Mr. Reed?"

"She hates me, and I won't be bothered with her. She thought Brom wasn't impressive enough. I should've known she'd go behind my back," Reed snorted and brought his palm down on the photograph of the horse from the scene, "Philip would've never been able to mount a stallion of that size, let alone keep his seat."

"You were teaching him to ride," Castle nodded.

"Not just ride. How to do  _everything._ How to dress, etiquette, how to move in the armor. 'Prince lessons.' That's what he called it," Reed gave a small, sad smile, "We'd only just gotten him in the saddle in the last few weeks."

"That explains the abrasions on his thighs and buttocks," Beckett said.

"Saddle sores," Reed confirmed. "They had to be miserable, but Philip never complained. He was determined to be ready."

"Sounds like a lot of pressure," Castle said, "How was he handling it?"

"Handling?" Reed looked startled and immediately tried to cover it, "Oh, fine. Fine. Philip is . . . was . . . always . . . a really up person."

"Really? His therapy must have been going well, then," Beckett's tone was casual, but Castle knew she was watching Reed carefully.

"Therapy?" Reed didn't bother hiding his reaction this time, "Philip wasn't in therapy."

"The autopsy findings show that Mr. Grayson was taking an anti-depressant," Beckett made a show of consulting the lab reports, "We're tracking down the prescription."

"You won't find anything," Reed's knuckles went white as he pressed his fingers into the table, "Not a prescription."

"A lot of people are private about that kind of thing," Castle said carefully, "Even ashamed. Maybe Mr. Grayson . . ."

"He was  _not_  seeing a shrink," Reed's voice rose. He paled, and with obvious effort, continued more quietly, "Philip . . . Philip was afraid of horses when we started. I suggested a doctor - he's a miracle worker with that kind of anxiety - it's the only time I ever saw Philip lose his temper. I thought . . ." Reed swallowed, "I mean, he never said, but . . . I got the impression that he'd had a bad experience with . . . that kind of thing."

"Can you think of any reason why he might have changed his mind since then?" Beckett's made a note on the lab report, "Any change in his behavior or demeanor lately?"

"He was . . . tired lately," Reed admitted, "But I thought it was just the wedding."

"Thank you, Mr. Reed," Beckett's eyes flicked to the one-way mirror and she gave a small nod, "You've been very helpful."

A soft knock sounded on the door. Ryan poked his head in a second later, "Uniforms at the park found . . . another horse," Reed's head snapped toward the door and Ryan quickly added, "Seems to be fine. He was shut up in an abandoned outbuilding. There's a squad downstairs for Mr. Reed."

"Thanks, Ryan," Beckett tied the folders and rose, "You'll ride with Mr. Reed? Castle and I have appointment."

"Thank you again, Mr. Reed," Castle slipped something from his pocket and placed it in Reed's hand as he edged by, "I  _may_  be in touch."

* * *

"What was that about? 'I  _may_  be in touch'." Beckett asked as the elevator doors closed.

"I'm flattered that you think my voice is so deep and mellifluous, Beckett," Castle leaned against the back of the car and closed his eyes.

"That was my Bullwinkle voice, Castle," Beckett studied him out of the corner of her eye.

"I'm even more flattered, Rocky," Castle opened one eye and smiled.  _Caught you staring._

She bit back an answering smile, "Don't deflect. You'll be in touch about what?"

"Plan B," Castle muttered, swaying slightly as the elevator car bumped to a stop. "I may write a historical romance yet."

"Come on, Castle, it can't be that bad," Beckett pushed through the front doors of the 12th and dug her keys out of her pocket.

"Oh, but it can," Castle winced in the bright sun. "It can."

"So you missed a deadline," Beckett pulled the driver's side door open and leaned her chin on the roof, "Have you ever actually  _made_  a deadline?"

"Occasionally," Castle sniffed and ducked into the car.

Beckett shook her head and switched on the ignition.

"I torched the ending," Castle mumbled into his fist.

"I thought you said you didn't know how it ended," Beckett pulled into traffic.

"When I killed off Derek Storm no one but me knew until the manuscript went to press," He rested his head on the window, "I submitted a dummy ending and an . . . associate . . . swapped it out at the last minute."

"They must've loved that," Beckett turned to him as she pulled up to a stoplight, but he was still staring blankly out the window.

"Gina strong-armed me into a new contract after that. I agreed to deliver a draft of the last three chapters of every book in the Nikki Heat series 12 months out from launch," he thunked the side of his head on the window, "I got on my high horse and handed her the last three chapters of the first book 48 hours after I signed."

"Do you usually write like that?" Beckett tried to keep the eagerness from her voice. In all the silly, serious, angry, comfortable conversations they'd had over the years, he almost never talked about his process.

"Most of the time," he was back to getting finger prints all over her windows now, "I don't always know how I'm going to get there, but I know how it ends."

"Until now?" The light changed and Beckett pulled forward.

"When Paula called me with that obscene offer for the next three books," he dropped his chin toward Beckett and gave a wicked, genuine smile, "And it  _was_  obscene. I told her I wouldn't sign unless Black Pawn agreed to remove that clause. And a week after I signed, I sent Gina the nine chapters. Gift wrapped."

"Castle, I am amazed you still have a nose at all," Beckett shook her head, "So what happened?"

"After . . . in May," Castle cleared his throat and studied the passing scenery. "I rewrote  _Heat Rises_  almost from scratch. I couldn't . . . not."

"It still came out in September . . . " Beckett said quietly. She had to remind herself to breathe.

"I finished it in 3 weeks. I had some time," He gave her a half smile.

"Castle . . ." Beckett trailed off.

"It's ok, Kate. We're past it," He brushed her shoulder with his fingers. "Anyway, I dropped the manuscript in Gina's lap and she didn't say a word."

"I was . . . surprised," Beckett cursed the red light for taking away an excuse to keep her eyes off him, "By the ending. The cliffhanger."

"It felt right," Castle searched her face, "I felt . . . I'm not trying to make you feel bad. Because we  _are_  past it. But I felt . . . half dead. And I didn't think I'd ever recover."

"Were you . . ." Beckett started as a horn blared behind her. She flipped the driver the finger and cranked the wheel to pull to an illegal spot at the curb. Punching the hazards, she turned in her seat, "You were writing Rook out?"

"I guess . . . maybe? I don't know. I didn't know," Castle banged his head on the headrest, "All this year, the fourth book has been writing itself. It's the best time I've had in a long time, and it doesn't . . . I can't make it connect to the ending I wrote 2 years ago. And I don't know  _how_  it ends."

Beckett was torn between laughing, crying, and throwing herself into his lap, "Castle. What did you do?"

"I . . . well, not I, but  _someone_  - no one I know, I'm  _sure_  -" he cast a sidelong glance at her and almost looked like his old self again, "Someone kind of broke into Black Pawn and destroyed all existing copies of those three chapters."

Beckett lost count of the moments that ticked by as they sat smiling at each other. Finally, she turned back to face the wheel and turned the smile down just a notch, "If you promise to leave me the Ferrari, I promise I will get her for your murder."

"Deal, Detective."


	7. Chapter 7

 

* * *

"Hear me out on the Mrs. Danvers thing," Castle's pen was poised above the legal pad.

"Can we give the Hitchcock theories a rest?" Beckett paced the length of her living room.

"Please: Du Maurier"

"What?" She was only half listening, her mind was too busy turning what little they had to go on over and over.

"Daphne Du Maurier wrote the novel," Castle jotted something on the pad, "Hitch manufactured a fine little movie, I suppose, but credit where credit is due."

"Fine little movie? Hitchcock's first American film. One of the all-time great collaborations," Beckett stopped in front of the window, enjoying the contrast of the warm sun on her skin and the arctic temperature of her blissfully air conditioned apartment, " _Ten_  Oscar nominations."

"And a code-imposed ending that completely undermines the psychological tone of the novel," Castle pointed at her with the pen, "Plus Hitchcock's total failure to realize that the chemistry between Olivier and George Sanders blew Joan Fontaine right off the screen. But a fine little movie."

Beckett glared, "Why are we even talking about this?"

"Because Clayton Winnert's global video conference is a pretty tight alibi, and no one else seems to have known Philip Grayson well enough to want to murder him," Castle assumed an innocent expression and kept his eyes on the notepad, "Except possibly Mrs. Danvers."

"So we have no suspects and you immediately go to the housekeeper?"

"They don't have a butler," Castle pointed out, "And don't tell me you didn't get a gothic overprotective vibe off  _her_."

"She'll be here in a little over an hour. Can we please focus, Castle?" Beckett absently pressed a hand against her stomach and resumed pacing.

"I can hear your stomach from here," he tossed the legal pad on the coffee table and shifted on the couch. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"Just those doughnuts . . . oh, wait . . ." she shot back.

"Food. Order food. Whatever you want, on me," he muttered as he sent his shoes clunking to the floor and swung his feet up on to the chaise and leaned back.  _Has her couch always been this comfortable?_

Beckett reached the end of another lap and spun toward him. Another needling comment died on her lips as she watched his eyes slip closed.  _He really does look like hell._ She thought.

"Fine. Mr. Chow. AND Ferrara for dessert," she grabbed her phone off the counter.

"Ferrara doesn't deliver," Castle murmured sleepily.

"Wei-min will have his delivery guy pick it up for me on the way," Beckett continued pacing with the phone to her ear.

"I thought you only used your feminine wiles to fight crime," his voice was growing fainter by the second.

"Can't fight crime on an empty stomach. Yes, I'll hold," Beckett watched as his head sank heavily against the back of the couch. She stepped softly past the coffee table and into her office.

She placed her usual "for two" order and thanked the owner profusely for arranging dessert pick up, then poked her head back into the living room.

Castle was well and truly asleep. The evening sun slanting across the couch threw his face half into shadow. She studied him a moment, then snagged the legal pad and pen from the coffee table and took it with her back into the office. She thumbed the ringer on her phone to vibrate and dropped it on the corner of the desk. Settling into her desk chair, she turned her attention to the note pad.

Castle had been quieter than usual as she caught him up with what little they'd learned from the autopsy and more interviews than she cared to think about. At the time, she'd written it off to his being tired and distracted. Now, she smiled at the pages, thick with writing.

His solo notes were typical: Boxes, ovals, and other shapes sprinkled across the page with bold arrows connecting them, light underscores and heavy question marks here and there, hare-brained ideas pushed to the margins. At the bottom of the page, in opposite corners, he'd written:  _Sex?_ and  _Courtly love._ Turning the page sideways, she saw he'd written  _Grace_ — _Grayson_  in a light hand, and below it  _Blank slate_.

Flipping forward through several pages filled with Castle's neat block-letter writing, she easily found the first page of notes he'd taken as the two of them had brainstormed in preparation for a second go-around with Audra Winnert. The page was neatly divided into two columns, the left headed " _Macro timeline_ ," the right " _Micro timeline_." Her straightforward facts lined up in a sure hand, interleaved with his conjectures and speculation sketched in with a slight slant to the letters.

The pad was satisfyingly full. Some of the frustration that had been dogging her since the initial run-in with Clayton Winnert lifted. They had a long way to go, but they weren't nowhere.

_You're good together_. Lanie's voice echoed in her head. Beckett smiled, shook her head, and took up the pen.

Castle had transferred some his notes on to the timeline. The "Macro timeline" started with Clayton and Claire Winnert's wedding date, some 7 years before Audra's birth, the next event in the timeline, and years after that, Claire Winnert's death. Beckett's hand absently touched the familiar lump of her mother's necklace beneath her shirt.

Below the date of Claire's death, Castle had written  _Audra Winnert: Whereabouts Unknown_. She laughed softly at the dramatic turn of phrase. A set of neatly indented arrows followed it:  _Seclusion_ _. Institution? Mrs. Danvers?_ In the margin, he'd written  _Character Formation_  and underlined it several times.

He'd left considerable space in the main column, with just a few marginalia ( _AW Online Involvement; AW Undercover; Collectors' Communities?_ ) appearing above the next dated item:  _Winterfield, April 2011._ So the happy couple had been together for a little more than a year, and the media had suddenly been all over the wedding in February 2012.  _Whirlwind romance_ , Beckett thought.

She scanned the column again. Philip Grayson was represented only by his birthdate—June 21, 1984—sandwiched in as an afterthought. It  _bugged_  her, both personally and professionally, that the story featured the Winnerts so prominently. She turned to the front of Castle's notes.  _Blank slate._

She flipped to the next blank page in the pad and wrote  _Philip Grayson_ across the top.

* * *

Beckett was so deep into the notes that she was utterly surprised to find herself on her feet and headed straight for Castle. His wide, staring eyes reflected her own disorientation.

"Kate," he breathed as she dropped to the couch next to him, clutching the legal pad in one hand.

"Castle, are you ok?" She remembered now: He'd cried out and brought her running.

"Kate," he repeated, breaking into a wide smile.

"What?" She couldn't help returning his smile, "You scared me!"

"I have it! I need paper," he snatched the pad from her hand and flipped madly for a blank page, "Pen! Pen, pen, pen!"

"Castle, what . . ." She broke off with a soft "oh," because his hands were suddenly in her hair.

His fingers closed around the pencil she'd snatched from him earlier, as his other hand slid up the nape of her neck and into the thick coil of her hair. He froze, abruptly and fully awake. More awake than he'd been in weeks.  _Maybe ever,_ he thought _._

Somewhere in the suddenly vast real estate of his brain, alarms were blaring, claxons were wailing, and an old school Sci-Fi robot was flailing its corrugated arms and intoning, "Danger, Danger!"

But that was all faint, far away, and unreal compared with her breath on his cheek, and her wide, questioning eyes.

He kissed her. Just a brief, soft meeting of lips.

"Sorry," he whispered in her ear, brushing his nose against her temple. He slid the pencil free, catching her hair as it tumbled into the fingers of his free hand. "I need this," he murmured against her lips, lingering this time. He kissed her again, once, twice.

"Um," he said, pulling back just enough for some basic information gathering. This made the vast majority of his brain very unhappy, but somewhere in the distance, a robot breathed an exasperated sigh of relief.

Her eyes fluttered open and almost laughed at the utterly boyish look of confusion dancing across his face. She leaned in, bringing her fingertips lightly,  _lightly_  to rest on either side of his jaw and kissed  _him_ , once, twice . . . then she lost count.

"Ah," she said as they pulled apart.

Castle brought the hand clutching the pencil up between them. His left hand was still pressing its luck as his fingertips traced the contours of the base of her skull, "Kate, I . . ."

They jumped apart as a loud, insistent buzzing sounded from the office.

"Phone!" Beckett said, much, much louder than she'd intended, as she propelled herself into the other room.

Castle moved to follow her, when suddenly the play of blue and red lights on the wall caught his attention. He knelt up on the couch and peered out the window, "Beckett, there's something going on down there."

"Beckett," she appeared in the doorway, phone in one hand, the other raking through her hair, "Peng? I can hardly hear you."

"It looks like a . . ." Castle turned toward her.

"What crime scene?" Beckett demanded.

* * *

"Please don't say you're not hungry," Castle dropped on to curb next to Beckett, holding up the take-out bag, "Because (a) you still haven't eaten all day, and (b) Peng risked life and limb to bring you," he peered into the bag, "Balanced And Harmonious Two Course Dinner From The Sky, Land, And Sea and chocolate cannoli."

"Castle," Beckett began in her  _Not-Now-Castle_ tone ( _Which, hey! Was not her We-Are-Over-Castle tone or her Castle-I-Will-End-You tone. Given that he'd just kissed her . . . holy SHIT! He'd kissed her. Several times. And she'd kissed him. Back. And independently. Holy SHIT!_ ).

"I know. I'm sorry. I know this is bad. . ." he stopped as she held up a hand and pushed herself up.

"Is she conscious?" Beckett asked. The paramedics counted off and leveraged the gurney into the back of the ambulance.

"I'm sorry, she's not," one paramedic replied as he grasped the door to swing himself up into the vehicle, "Pulse is steady and breathing is regular, but it looks like a pretty bad head trauma."

The door closed and the ambulance eased away from the curb. Castle watched as Beckett rocked on to her toes, her fists clenching at her sides.

_Here goes_ , he thought as he touched her shoulder and stepped up beside her, "They'll be done with Peng soon enough. And they're going to want to talk to us. No sense getting their dander up."

Beckett just about jumped out of her skin at his touch and he flinched back, "I know, Castle," she snapped.

Beckett watched the group in front of the door where the white-faced delivery man was gesturing as a uniform nodded and took notes. Another officer turned and caught her eye before making his way over.

"Detective Beckett?" he extended his hand and Beckett shook it. "Reston. This is your apartment building?"

Beckett nodded.

"And Ms. Carter was on her way to see you?"

"Carter?" Beckett was drawing a blank.

"Danvers," Castle said low enough that only Beckett could hear, then continued for Reston's benefit, "Yes, or we assume so. Ms. Carter is part of the staff at . . . well, we met her earlier today."

"My partner, Richard Castle," Beckett said shortly. "Officer Reston, this situation is more serious than the assault on Ms. Carter. We have reason to believe that Audra Winnert was with her at the time of the attack."

" _Winnert_?" Reston closed his eyes and shook his head, "Are you sure?"

"We're investigating of the murder of her fiancée and she'd agreed to meet us this evening," Beckett gestured toward the building's foyer, "There's one security camera in the entryway, but it looks like they didn't get that far. Between red light and NYPD surveillance cameras, we should be able to find something. Peng can narrow down our timeline."

"Thanks, detective," Reston gave her a sour look, "I think we can cover our bases."

"Sorry," Beckett grimaced apologetically, "Not trying to overstep. But we may have a more serious crime here with a very high profile . . ."

"Where's the car?" Castle said abruptly. He turned to look up and down the street, then back to Beckett and Reston, "It's not like Audra Winnert hopped the Bee-Line from Westchester."

"She'd have driven?" Reston asked.

"Or, more likely, had a driver," Beckett crouched to inspect the pavement, "No skid marks."

"Did you hear anything?" Reston looked up, "You're on, what? Second floor?"

"I was asleep," Castle said sheepishly.

Beckett thought a moment, then shook her head, "Nothing. I tune out the traffic, but I think I would remember a car horn or any kind of altercation."

Castle's jacket chimed once, "Sorry," he muttered, pulling the phone from his pocket.

Reston's hand moved to his radio, "So I'll get out an APB on Audra Winnert."

"Wait," Beckett stopped him, "You're going to want to give your superiors the heads-up on this first."

"High profile. I get it Detective," Reston looked like he had a bad taste in the mouth.

_I know the feeling,_ Beckett thought, "Trust me, Reston, it rubs me the wrong way, too. And locating Audra Winnert takes priority, but . . ."

"I might be able to help you with that," Castle held up his phone. "She just texted me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, look! Finally some smooching. So cheap, I know the "I just woke up" kiss, but there was that pencil/hair stick on the mantle . . . .


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a reference to a line of dialogue from "Eye of the Beholder" in this chapter. I don't think it would spoil anything for anyone who hadn't seen the episode, but I'd rather over-warn than accidentally spoil.

 

 

* * *

"The stairwell?" Esposito eased the door closed behind him, "Look if this is some kind of invitation to a threesome, it's not really my scene."

Castle started and glanced toward Beckett out of the corner of his eye.

"Ryan and Jenny would never forgive us for stealing you away," she answered evenly. "Where is Ryan anyway?"

"Men's room on our floor. Something came in on Castle's text. He ducked in there to avoid Gates like you said. What's up?"

"Just wanted a moment to compare notes and see where we are before . . ." Beckett gestured upward.

"Before the yelling starts," Castle dumped his shoulder bag on the floor and sank down on to the bottom stair, looking dejected.

"Already started," Esposito replied, "Gates's phone hasn't stopped ringing since you called in the latest. She's breathing fire."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to be her right now," Beckett sank against the wall, "not that being  _us_  is a picnic at the moment."

"So how sure are you this text is really from the girl anyway?"

"She set up the meeting with Castle by text. This one's from the same number."

"Could've been from the kidnapper," Esposito backed up a step as Beckett's hard stare hit him, "If she was even kidnapped."

"Or she could've sent it under duress."

"I don't think so," Castle shook his head, "She wanted me to know it really was her. 'PP: Safe, but scared. Please look after Tillie'."

"PP?" Esposito raised an eyebrow.

"The Pickle Prince," Beckett smirked.

"It's a reference to a conversation we had earlier," Castle said quickly.

"Not touchin' that one," Esposito deadpanned. "Tillie? The housekeeper? I thought her name was Edith."

"Old-fashioned nickname," Beckett said absently, "Castle says that's what Audra Winnert called her."

"So . . . chummy text. Probably from her," Esposito nodded.

"What went down at the park?" Castle asked, "Any further adventures for  _el vaquero_?"

Esposito stared him down, " _Ellos nunca encontrarán su cuerpo, hermano._ "

Castle turned a pleading look on Beckett.  _No help there_. "Sorry," he muttered. "Too soon."

"Reed made the call on the first horse: Wedding planner brought it in. She didn't like Reed's pony . . ."

"Palfrey," Castle corrected, "It's a relatively small, light riding horse. Totally authentic, but not as visually impressive as a Great Horse like the Belgian. A pony is . . ." He suddenly realized that the sizzling laser eye beams of two of New York's finest were converging on him, "Not relevant at this juncture. Please continue, Detective."

Esposito stared at him a beat longer, then went on, "Thing is, someone led Reed's horse to the outbuilding and shut it in there. The evil one was just let loose."

"Why were there horses out at the castle at all?" Beckett's heel drummed against the wall behind her, "Four days to the wedding?"

"I'd guess Philip Grayson needed a few dress rehearsals," Castle shrugged. "Audra had some dramatic stuff planned for the wedding."

"Castle's right. According to the construction crew, Grayson was at the castle at all hours working with the horse, getting used to the armor . . ."

"Alone?" Beckett's foot stopped abruptly.

"Usually, if he wasn't working with Reed," Esposito said. "Evening foreman said Grayson would still be at it when they knocked off at 11. Morning foreman said he was usually there when they got started."

"No security? That's odd," Castle frowned. "Valuable construction materials, one-of-a-kind antiques . . ."

"Wedding planner had a guy," Esposito snorted, "Useless. Copped to falling asleep the night of the murder. Came stumbling out of one of the storage units when the foreman started yelling for help after he found the body. Reed had his own people at first, but Grayson was self-conscious. Reed okayed an on-call thing. His guys would only come in for the night if Grayson planned on leaving."

"So the night of the murder, the construction crew leaves at 11. Grayson is there alone?" Beckett pushed off the wall and paced in a tight circle.

"Yeah," Esposito checked his notebook, "Reed got Grayson all dressed up, then he left around 7:30. Early for him."

"Lanie puts time of death around 3 AM," Beckett tapped a finger against her chin, "That leaves Grayson alone from 11 PM to 3 AM."

"Wait, Reed didn't know anything about the second horse until this afternoon," Castle jumped up, almost colliding with Beckett.

"Which means it wasn't there when he left," she pivoted, "Espo, the construction crew . . ."

"Not a word about a second horse showing up."

"So the great horse caper took place after 11," Castle rifled through his bag and came up with the notepad.

"While Grayson was there? That doesn't make any sense," Beckett threw her hands up.

"Maybe he knew?" Esposito said.

"No, no," Castle scribbled something, "He was afraid of horses. He'd only been riding for a few weeks. There's no way he'd agree to a new horse. Especially not one that was bigger and harder to handle."

"So either Grayson wasn't at the castle the whole time or he had a run in with whoever made the switch," Beckett's eyes lit up. "Javi, we need to get our useless security guard and that wedding planner down here. And check with the Park to see if they have a permit vehicle entry that fits our timeline."

"I'll bet they don't," Castle was still writing, "I'd have brought the truck in during normal business hours and stashed the horse somewhere."

"Probably right," Esposito pulled out his own phone, "I'll have 'em pull records for vehicles in and out all day."

All three whipped around as the door to the stairwell opened. Ryan held up his hands, "Whoa! Didn't mean to interrupt your threesome."

This time Castle caught Beckett's eye and grinned. She glared back, but he didn't miss the twitch at the corners of her mouth before she turned to Ryan, "What've you got on the text, Ryan?"

"Our guy confirms the texts from this afternoon and evening were sent from a phone belonging to Audra Winnert," Ryan stepped into the stairwell, "Phone's off now, but the mobile positioning estimate says the text was sent from about 9 miles north of Beckett's apartment."

"Miles?" Castle frowned and pulled out his phone, "Beckett, what time was Tillie Carter attacked?"

"Won't know for sure until we get our hands on surveillance footage, but the housekeeper was on the ground and Audra was nowhere to be seen when Peng got there between 6:15 and 6:20."

"So right around then," Ryan made a note, "People'd notice an old lady lying on the sidewalk."

"Even in New York," Esposito paused, "Probably."

Beckett reached for Castle's phone, "What's the time stamp on the text?"

"It's locked, you know," Castle grabbed at the phone, but she slapped his hand away.

"Detective, remember?" Beckett arched an eyebrow. She tapped out a series of numbers, then slid her finger across the screen, "6:35."

"Ryan, how accurate is the positioning?" Castle asked.

"With the tower density in the city, pretty accurate. Within a quarter mile, say?"

"9 miles in less than 15 minutes?" Esposito whistled, "She's not on foot."

"In Manhattan at rush hour, that's . . ." Beckett scrolled up.

"Impossible," Castle peered at the screen over her shoulder. "She was never at your apartment."

"But she  _was_  in Manhattan What the hell is going on?"

The door slammed open. At least three girly screams caromed around the stairwell.

"Exactly what I'd like to know," Gates was a dark shape in the harsh lighting of the hallway behind her, "Now if this meeting of the Boxcar Children is adjourned, let's move this up to my office, shall we?"

* * *

_I am still absolutely enraged_ , Beckett told herself as she made her 17th stab at the lock,  _It's just a very subdued rage at the moment._ Finally the key slid home. She turned it and sagged into the dark interior of her apartment

She smelled something. Her heart started to race and her mouth started to water, simultaneously. Somewhere, the thought that her nervous system wasn't supposed to allow both at once pinged around in the back of her mind. She flipped on the lights and strode through the foyer, one hand on her weapon. She scanned left, then right, immediately spotting the bag on the kitchen island.

A square of paper was propped against it. Even from a distance, she recognized it as a sheet from Castle's moleskine.  _Several sheets_ , she thought as she took them in hand.

The top one said, "TAKE THE CANNOLI" in his neat block capitals.  _How the hell did he . . ._ she shuffled the top sheet to the back of the pile.

The second sheet said, "Roger (your super) wanted the skinny on the crime scene." Ok, that was equal parts funny and disturbing.  _Maybe not_ equal  _parts. How the hell does he know my super's name?_

The third sheet simply said, "EAT." Her stomach rumbled in agreement. She disemboweled the bag, peeking into each container as she set it on the counter. She did a mental jig ( _Too tired for literal jigging_ ) as her fingers settled on the last container, a beautiful, wonderful, transparent plastic clam shell containing a single, perfect chocolate-dipped cannoli.

She was about to dive into the dessert head first when the countertop started to ripple and sway beneath her fingertips. She closed her eyes and fumbled her way on to one of the stools.  _Real food first. Right_.

Everything was no better than lukewarm. Castle had been banished from the precinct several hours earlier. He must have come by before heading home. She'd moved on to her third steamed dumpling before remembering the notes. The fourth and last was longest, "Extraordinary KB: Sorry about the New China Red. Mr. Chow's wouldn't take my call. Good news: Ferrara still picks up. Figured you wouldn't remember to eat. Let me know when the coast is clear, REC."

"When the coast is clear," she said aloud, frowning around a mouthful of General Tso`s Chicken Plus Seafood Combination. Grateful for the calories, her rage was suddenly a lot less subdued.

* * *

_To call the meeting in Gates's office tense was a ridiculous understatement. She'd barked at them like unruly kindergartners, forbidding anyone to speak unless she'd asked a direct question._

" _I'm not asking for your interpretation, Detective Ryan. Tell me exactly what we know for a fact about these text messages._

" _Audra Winnert owns the phone they were sent from. That phone has been switched off since approximately 6:35 this evening and its last known location was approximately 9 miles northeast of Detective Beckett's apartment in the vicinity of 168th and Riverside Drive. Sir."_

" _And you, Detective Beckett. What do you have to say?"_

" _Are you asking for my interpretation, sir?" Beckett's tone was unfailingly polite, but she could practically hear all three men in the room holding their breath._

" _Let's start with facts."_

" _Audra Winnert or someone using Audra Winnert's phone arranged a meeting via text. My apartment, 6:30."_

" _And?" Gates prompted._

" _Permission to interpret, sir?" Beckett kept her eyes on the statue over Gates's left shoulder. Next to her, Castle was seized by a sudden coughing fit._

" _Go on, Detective," Gates worked her jaw but kept her tone even. And she most definitely did_ not  _even glance Castle's way._

" _Audra Winnert was miles away by the time she was supposed to be at my apartment. She never intended to make that meeting."_

_Gates leaned back in her chair, "And how do you explain that?"_

" _I don't know, sir," Beckett turned her palms up, "I don't know if she got spooked or the whole thing was a set up from the beginning. And I won't know until you let me and my team get back out there and do our jobs."_

" _Ryan, Esposito, go see what we have on video from Ms. Carter's assault," Gates lifted her chin, "Mr. Castle, just get out of my office."_

_Castle drew in a breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beckett shake her head almost imperceptibly, "Captain, always a pleasure," he said and followed Ryan and Esposito from the room._

_When the door closed, Gates stared at Beckett consideringly for a long moment. Beckett simply returned the gaze and waited._

_Finally, Gates spoke, "Tell me how you'd handle Clayton Winnert if you were me."_

" _I'm assuming a muzzle is out of the question," Beckett said after a moment._

" _Detective . . ." Gates's tone held a warning, but also the faintest hint of amusement._

" _Lock up for obstruction of justice?" Beckett tried. The moment of levity, assuming Beckett hadn't just imagined it, was past. She folded her hands on her lap and went on, "Given the assault on Ms. Carter, we have to proceed as if Audra Winnert is a missing person at risk."_

" _Go on, Beckett."_

" _I don't think she's at risk. I think she's missing because she wants to be."_

" _Would it surprise you to know that I agree with you?"_

_Beckett blinked, "Yes, sir, it would."_

" _She didn't use Clayton Winnert's car service. None of the cars are missing from the Westchester estate. In fact, he didn't have the faintest idea that she wasn't in the house until he got the call," Gates grimaced, "That did_ not  _make him happy."_

" _I can't imagine it did, sir," Beckett swallowed a smile._

" _So what do I do with my unhappy billionaire, Detective Beckett?"_

" _Under usual circumstances," Beckett replied slowly, "We'd try to discourage someone like Mr. Winnert from complicating the situation with his own investigators, media campaign, and so on. But in this case, with such an important and influential figure, I'd say . . . let him loose."_

" _I'm glad we're on the same page. But here's the thing . . ."_

_Beckett had known the brief episode of collegial bonding was too good to last, "Sir?"_

" _Clayton Winnert cannot stand the_ sight  _of you," Gates looked grimly pleased._

" _Sir, you can't take me off this case," Beckett grabbed the edge of the desk in front of her._

" _Stand down, Detective. Clayton Winnert isn't making any personnel decisions in my precinct. But we'll route communications with him through me," she held up a hand, "Save it. This is not about me doubting your abilities, and believe me, it is_ not  _my idea of a good time. It's politics, and in this case, politics is the quickest way to get the job done."_

" _And?" Beckett asked._

" _Castle," Gates answered._

* * *

Gates had stopped just short of forbidding her to keep Castle on the case. Even more infuriating than being dictated to was the fact that Clayton and Audra Winnert had more to do with the concession than any argument Beckett could make. As it was, Gates had strongly implied that Clayton Winnert would be delighted to borrow her pet writer for a few days and wouldn't that be just the way to kill two birds with one stone.

Beckett was about to assuage her frustration with her chocolate cannoli, when she realized she owed Castle a thank you and a update. _And positive reinforcement_ , she thought. He'd shown unprecedented restraint in not calling the precinct once in the several hours since he'd been kicked out of Gates's office.

She dug in her pocket for her phone and winced at the time: 12:38. It was unlikely he'd be asleep, but she sent a text to be on the safe side,  _Food appreciated, but redundant (toasty tarts!). Avoid the 12 tomorrow. Text me when you're up._

Stuffing half the cannoli in her mouth, she stood up and began pulling off her clothes. If she waited until she got to the bedroom, she was reasonably certain she'd fall asleep, fully dressed, on top of the cannoli.

Her phone rang while one arm was still stuck inside her shirt. She poked to answer the call and send it to speaker. "Castle, hold on."

" _Liar_. _"_

She swallowed and freed herself from the shirt. "Excuse me?"

" _Vending machine hasn't had toasty tarts for weeks."_

She knew exactly the smile he had on his face right then. It looked a lot like the one on hers, "You caught me. But I eat, Castle."

" _Just not today. I'm sorry it was probably cold by the time you got in."_

"No, no," she mumbled through the second half cannoli, "It was great. And some other time, we'll have a discussion about boundaries and my apartment."

There was a sudden dead silence on the other end of the phone.  _Shit! Shit Shit Shit!_ She'd only meant to tweak him about cozying up to the super to deliver her dinner, but she was suddenly filled with the same electric anticipation she'd felt as his fingers slid into her hair. "Castle?" She said weakly.

" _I'm here,"_ the wariness in his voice conjured up an echo of the same thing in her own  _You know, I mean, suit yourself . . ._

"I just meant," she closed her eyes and opened them again immediately, which did less than nothing to dispel the images, "It was really thoughtful of you . . . And how do you know my super anyway?"

He laughed at her cross tone, picturing her eyes narrowing and the creases deepening on her forehead,  _"I'm a people person."_

"Tell that to the Captain," she scooped her shirt off the counter and started toward the bedroom.

" _Right. So I'm banished?"_ He sounded like he'd just confirmed that Santa Claus wasn't real.

"Only from the precinct. Gates won't cross Clayton Winnert, and you're the one Audra's been in touch with," She tossed her shirt in the general direction of the hamper and set to work on her jeans.

" _Oh good, so I get blowhard wild goose chase duty?"_

"Hang on one second," she laughed and dropped the phone on the bed.

Castle let forth a stream of complaints as she stripped off her bra and ducked into the bathroom, grabbing her sleep shirt from the back of the door.

"Ok, I'm back," she slipped into the shirt and under the covers in almost a single motion.

" _. . but I will soldier on,"_ he finished with an artistic sniff.

_Martha would be so proud_ , she thought.

" _Beckett, are you giggling?"_

"I'm half dead, Castle, I don't know what I'm doing," she yawned.

" _Pity I'm not there to take advantage . . ."_ It was his same old, over-the-top bedroom voice, but he let the words linger just long enough to elicit a shiver from her.

" _But since I'm not, I bid you good night."_

"Night, Castle," she said softly and tapped the phone to end the call.

Although she'd been nearly asleep half a minute before, now she found herself staring up at the ceiling. She wasn't surprised in the least when the phone rang again a minute later.

" _I kissed you, Kate. And you kissed me. We're going to talk about it this time, just not right now."_

"Okay," she said simply.

" _Okay"_ he repeated and disconnected.

She flipped on to her stomach and smiled into her pillow. This time she was more than half asleep when the phone rang again.

"Castle, now I'm mostly dead," she mumbled.

" _I know, I'm sorry. And we're not talking about this now. But we're going to . . ."_

"Castle!"

" _I just wanted to say that I would like to kiss you again. As often as possible. Ok. Goodnight."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me some trouble. I wanted to make sure the plot keeps moving forward, but I find myself getting obsessed with getting details right and being very strict with myself about this not devolving into all nookie all the time, now that the nookie floodgate has opened. Hopefully there's some kind of balance here.


	9. Chapter 9

 

* * *

Castle awoke suddenly and completely. He was utterly disoriented by the fact that he was in his own bed, and even more disoriented to find that he'd been sleeping. In recent weeks, his bedroom had become a distant memory and sleep the stuff of myth.

He raised his head from the cool, comfortable sheets. It was not yet dawn, but the light slipping through the blinds had the gun metal quality signaling that the sun would soon be up. With a concerted effort, he focused on the bedside clock.  _3:59_.  _Three solid hours. Good._

His curiously alert mind noted that he was in a  _fantastic_ mood—odd. He was no stranger to all-nighters of many different flavors, but he was not, by nature, a man who liked to see sunrise from this side.  _So why am I awake and why am I in a good—no,_ great— _mood?_  He flipped on to his back and part of the answer came to him as though it had been printed on the ceiling.

 _Kate._ He'd been dreaming about her. ( _Not new._ ) But it  _was_  new. This dream was new. It wasn't the vast, desperate expanse of a night that rolled and buckled, tossing him from pornography to anxiety dream and back again. He couldn't remember much: They'd been  _together_ , complete with italics.

_He'd kissed her and felt the bone-deep thrill that nearness to her always brought. His hands had patiently worked their way up to the button at her throat. She'd laughed against his lips as his patient hands oh-so-casually worked the button open._

( _Ok, maybe a_ little  _pornography._ )Part of his bizarre new morning-person incarnation was eager to shake off the dream and get to work, but another, more insistent part pulled him back into the memory.

 _One button became two, became three, and then the linen was sliding from her shoulders. She was talking, low and teasing in his ear, pulling away, then crashing against his hands and lips when he gave chase. Suddenly, she stilled as his lips traveled over the rise of her shoulder. She made soft noises as his teeth and lips revisited the sweet spot over and over_.  _He pulled back to look her in the eyes, to kiss her lips. His fingers trailed over the mark blossoming on her skin_.

His eyes snapped open.  _Hickey!_ He chided morning-person Castle for cheapening what was clearly a tender and tasteful sex dream. But his alien morning brain was insistent.  _Hickey!_ He absently noted that he'd even made it into pajamas before collapsing into an actual bed. He vacated said bed and dashed into his office.

Tapping impatiently at the space bar on his laptop, Castle said a silent thank you to Ryan, who'd sent him electronic copies of their working files after Gates had kicked him out. He hunted around the desktop until he found the folder with the autopsy photos.

Too impatient to decipher Lanie's naming system, he highlighted all the files and clicked open, rapidly closing window after grisly window until he found what he was looking for: A close up of Philip Grayson's left collar bone and the single, delicate mark there.

His phone was in his hand almost before he realized it, but some part of his brain dedicated to self-preservation made note of the time and managed rein in the morning person invader before he actually completed the call. The insight would keep until Beckett had had something resembling a decent night's sleep.  _Besides_ , he thought,  _That story needs an ending._

Minimizing the autopsy photo, he opened a fresh word document and began to write.

* * *

Beckett was already at the murder board when Esposito stumbled in, followed shortly by Ryan. She'd made a lot of progress pulling pieces together and transferring notes from the day before, although she'd continually interrupted herself by reaching for the tall cup of coffee that wasn't there.

Despite the substandard caffeine she'd imbibed ( _that high-end machine would be the death of her yet_ ) and the empty chair next to her desk, she felt worlds better than the day before, energized, focused . . . intermittently giddy when her mind drifted Castle-ward.  _And that's enough of that_ , she thought as she wiped that particular smile off her face a moment too late.

"Where are we on the security guard and wedding planner?" She called out, interrupting the silent conversation the two detectives were clearly having on the subject of their boss and her unprecedentedly early, unprecedentedly goofy grin.

"They'll be here first thing," Ryan said, "Civilian first thing, not super-cop first thing."

"Before you ask, we're coming up empty on the shrink," Esposito walked over to the murder board and tapped it with a marker, "No prescription, no regular appointments."

"That doesn't smell right to me," Beckett circled  _SSRI_ on the board.

"Might wanna hold your nose then," Ryan leaned back against the desk. "I thought about what Reed said, that maybe Grayson'd had a bad experience in the past."

"So we look further back," Beckett nodded, "Good thinking."

"Yeah. Except Grayson doesn't seem to  _have_ a 'further back'."

* * *

Clayton Winnert had done the impossible: He'd systematically worn away every last bit of Castle's five-star mood. Castle had always prided himself on his ability to play to his audience. It wasn't hard: A good writer was first and foremost a good reader, one who could see the story in every person's face—the way they moved, their version of stillness—and tell it back to them, playing with their own notions of heroes and villains.

He could play Westchester; he just took no pleasure in it, with its slick, superficial version of taste, its empty, clanging small talk. He could read Clayton Winnert all too easily, not that the man left much to the imagination.

The bright side to Winnert's particular brand of braggadocio was how pitifully easy it made it him to manipulate. Which is how Castle came to find himself camped out in a guest bathroom one and a half times the size of his first apartment, having a furiously whispered conversation with Beckett.

_He'd looked up from his keyboard, spine stiff, hands aching._

7:00. Late enough,  _he'd thought as he reached for his phone, gleeful at the endless potential inherent in a conversation about love bites with Beckett._ A conversation with Beckett about love bites _, he mentally corrected himself,_  Oh boy.

 _The phone buzzed in his hand before he had a chance to dial. His face fell a bit when he recognized the number. He'd had his fill of Clayton Winnert the day before._ Still. Digging to do,  _he thought,_ Showtime.

" _Mr. Winnert. Any news on Audra."_

" _I thought we'd agreed on Clayton yesterday, Rick."_

_Castle stared at the phone a moment, unprepared for this bonhomie. Strange, coming from a man whose daughter was, in theory, missing, "Of course . . . Clayton."_

" _Excellent. No, nothing new, exactly, but I expect results shortly. My people are sorting out Detective Beckett's mess."_

_Anger flared in him and burned down a short fuse to the tip of his tongue. Fortunately his finger was fast on the mute button and his desktop toys were the only audience for the blue streak of expletives._

" _Rick?"_

 _Castle stood, slamming his chair savagely into the wall behind him_ (And I wonder why it's constantly dumping me ass over teakettle). _He clicked back to the call "Yes, sorry. That's good to hear. Anything I can do . . ."_

" _I was hoping you'd say that, Rick. One of my cars is waiting for you outside your loft. You know these clowns. We could use your insight on what they might do next. Have to head them off at the pass."_

" _Absolutely," Castle's fist closed around a rapier, "Anything I can do."_

* * *

"Hinky?" Beckett hissed, "Castle, I just ran out of an all-hands meeting citing  _bladder_  issues when I got your text. I'm in a stall in the men's room and I am going to owe Tomasino from Vice a  _really_  big favor for standing lookout. Can you please use your big boy words?'

He knew— _he knew_ —they didn't have the time for their usual word games. Life was simply not fair.

"It might interest you to know, Detective, that I, too, am on borrowed time and hiding in a bathroom, otherwise there is no way that I could  _possibly_  resist that opening. Listen, I got my hands on Winnert's PI report on Grayson,"

"PI!" Beckett thought back to her first run-in with Winnert  _He slept on the left side of the bed and preferred chunky peanut butter over creamy._ She ground the heel of her hand against the tension headache dancing between her eyes. "Of course there was a PI."

"Well, sort of: Here's the thing. The recent stuff is pretty standard. Boring, mostly, with a couple of venial sins thrown in, but the background . . ."

"Hold on," Beckett opened the stall a crack.

Tomasino nudged the main door to the bathroom open, acting as though he were just exiting, "No, Captain, haven't seen her today," he said. He looked over his shoulder and met Beckett's eye, mouthing,  _Hurry._

She nodded a thank you, "Ok, what about the background, Castle. Talk fast."

"It's too perfect. Too many tantalizing glimpses here and half-uncovered truths there. It's . . . massaged," Castle winced as his voice bounced off the bathroom's very expensive tile work. He lowered his voice, "It's something I might've written. I mean, not as  _polished_  or  _compelling . . ._ "

"Castle. Bottom line."

"It's a work of fiction."

* * *

"What'd I miss?"Beckett could see that Gates was on the phone again, but kept her voice low anyway.

"Captain bought us ice cream," Esposito's hung up his desk phone, "Told us we're her favorites."

"She said not to tell!" Ryan slapped him on the back of the head, "What's the word from Castle?"

"Shhhh," Beckett's head whipped toward Gates's office. The Captain was still pacing, phone in hand, "Check your email. You should have something from your boyfriend."

Ryan slid into his desk chair, "A bidet?" He turned the monitor her.

Beckett swore under her breath, "Scroll down."

"PI report on Grayson, dated . . . January of this year," Ryan squinted at the screen, "Not great image quality, but good enough. Finally something to go on with our vic?"

"Maybe not. Or not like you think," Beckett stepped up behind him. "Castle doesn't buy the background."

Esposito leaned in for a closer look at Ryan's monitor, "Guy's real enough. Low life. Seems popular with your Winnert types, though."

"You've dealt with him before?" Beckett asked.

Esposito nodded, "Want me to reach out him?"

"Please. But first go through that report with a fine-toothed comb. Make sure this isn't just Castle's being Castle."

"Castle being Castle usually works out pretty well for us," Ryan clicked print.

"Don't remind me," Beckett muttered to the murder board.

* * *

Castle swore as the town car lurched to a stop, then to a start again. James had already exhausted their options for re-routing. The heat had simply done its damage to the common sense of the average New Yorker. It was one of  _those_ mornings in the City.

 _I give up_. Castle closed his eyes, fighting down a wave of nausea. Usually, he knew better than to try to write in a moving car, but with the ending ( _finally_ ) fairly streaming from his fingertips, he'd unwisely taken a chance. The motion sickness vanished almost as soon as he'd closed the lid of his laptop.

The alien morning person still seemed to be driving the Castle bus: His mind snapped back to the case with complete focus. The couple of hours he'd spent in Westchester had left him craving a particularly long, hot shower, but he had to admit it had been productive.

Beckett hadn't had time to go into the details, but his own instincts about the PI's report and the dead end Ryan had hit in  _his_  research converged on a single, tantalizing point: Philip Grayson wasn't a phantom, he was a character.  _But whose?_  Castle had some candidates in mind, but the story wasn't pulling together just yet.

He pulled out his notebook—writing longhand never seemed to bother him—and turned it sideways, writing three words across the top of the page:

_AUTHOR LOVER KILLER_

Clayton Winnert had rapidly surged to the top of Castle's Least Favorite Fan list. Unfortunately, at least from Castle's perspective, Winnert was probably irrelevant to the case. His foul mouth and irascible temper revealed him to be a bully and a chauvinist who spoke every noxious thought that crossed his mind. He seemed to have no inner life at all.  _Totally incapable of creating a character_.

Castle would have especially liked Winnert for the killer. Of course, if he were writing the story, the motive would have been something more complex than Daddy dearest protecting his little girl. But however much Castle preferred an lean  _dramatis personae_  to going all Tolstoy, Winnert openly concerned himself with "damage control" and "loss mitigation" in connection with his own daughter's probable kidnapping. Even  _he_ couldn't sell Winnert as a convincing killer.  _Too cold._

He switched from pen to pencil and sketched out a few thoughts that had been percolating. His phone rang.  _Kate_ , he thought with a rush of excitement that immediately bled away as he saw the caller ID. For an instant, his finger hovered over "decline."  _Research,_ he reminded himself as he tapped accept, "Clayton, missing me already?"

Castle held the phone away from his ear as Winnert brayed out a harsh laugh, "Funny, Rick. No, it's a hell of a thing. That old bitch is awake. She's asking for you."

"Ex . . excuse me?"

"Carter. She's awake and she wants to talk to you. My people are on their way, but you're closer. Find out what the fuck happened to my daughter."

* * *

After 15 minutes of disjointed hysteria from Bridget Moran, Beckett concluded that all in all, she preferred dealing with Audra Winnert. In all that time, she'd learned exactly two things: Everyone involved with the wedding had good reason to hate this woman, and the great horse caper ( _Oh, thanks for that, Castle_ ) was still a mystery.

In between bouts of despair, they'd gathered that Bridget had arranged for the great horse to be brought to the park and kept in the outbuilding where Reed's horse had been recovered. She claimed to have no idea who'd made the switch.

Beckett caught Ryan's eye and saw that, like her, he was inclined to believe it. Bridget's her own plan involved a convoluted eleventh-hour swap on the day of the wedding.

"When it was too late for that  _stable boy_ to do anything about it."

 _Stupid. Not sinister_ , Beckett thought,  _Unfortunately._

Ryan jumped in before the woman could start raging again, "Wouldn't Mr. Grayson have been the real obstacle?"

The wedding planner made a face, "Him? I could have handled that . . . cardboard cutout."

"You didn't like him?"

"What was to like?" she sneered, "Such a nothing."

Beckett was well and truly tired of hearing variations on that theme, "Audra Winnert liked him well enough to marry him."

Bridget Moran's mouth twitched, "Did she?"

"You obviously don't think so," Ryan leaned toward her, "Why not?"

"In my experience," she examined her fingernails, "People in Audra Winnert's tax bracket don't marry for love."

"Fair enough," Beckett leaned back, "What was their relationship like?"

She considered for a moment, "Practical. They worked well together."

"Not very romantic," Ryan gestured to a photo of the castle on the table, "Especially for a fairy tale wedding."

"Do you know how many couples aren't at each other's throats by the time they make it to the altar, Detective?" She spread her fingers wide, "I can count them on one hand."

"Were they?" Beckett asked, "At each other's throats?"

She gave a brittle laugh, "The two of them? No."

Something about her phrasing caught Beckett's attention, "Was Mr. Grayson was at odds with someone else?"

"I couldn't say," Bridget answered with an insincere smile.

Ryan matched it, "Why  _couldn't_ you say, Ms. Moran?"

"Well, I never saw anything, Detective . . . "

Beckett took the safety off her hard stare.

Bridget Moran smirked, "But in my  _professional_ opinion, Mr. Grayson had recently been disappointed in love."

* * *

"Mr. Castle?"

"Yes, Doctor . . ." Castle bent down to read her name tag, "Finn. How is she?"

"Agitated," she looked Castle up and down, "You're not a relative, are you?"

"No," he admitted with a smile, "But I was told she asked for me."

"She did. Repeatedly," Dr. Finn did not look happy about this, "I haven't even let the police see her yet. I'm really only agreeing to this because I'm hoping that it might calm her down."

"I understand. And I'll do my best not to upset her," Castle stepped through the glass doors leading into ward and nodded to the officer positioned outside her room.

Edith Carter was no longer covered in blood. Other than that, she did not look substantially better than she had while the paramedics were loading her into the ambulance. She'd taken a blow to the side of the head, and the unhealthy streaks of violet and magenta peeking out from beneath the bandage represented the only color in her face. Her steel grey hair was splayed around her head, in stark contrast to the severe bun she'd worn earlier. She looked old, fragile, and terrified.

"Ms. Carter," Castle said quietly as he sat in the chair near the head of the bed, pulling the privacy curtain closed behind him.

"Mr. Castle," her voice was barely above a whisper. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course," He hesitated a minute, then laid his hand over hers, "I was . . . a little surprised, but of course I came when I heard you wanted to see me."

"There will be . . ." tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over, "Police?"

"Yes, there's a guard outside right now. You don't have to be . . . whoa," Castle clutched at her hand and stood as Edith Carter came as close to thrashing as her condition would allow. He caught her other wrist as she flailed wildly, yanking free of the oxygen sensor on her finger, "Ms. Carter, you have to stay calm!"

She shook off his hand, grabbing at his lapel to pull him closer, "Mr. Castle, she didn't mean it."

Castle heard the privacy curtain open with an angry hiss.

" _This_ is keeping her calm?" Dr. Finn stepped between him and the bed.

His jacket slipped from Edith Carter's fingers, but the woman's eyes were still on him, "She didn't mean for this to happen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I could kill Gates for kicking Castle out. So much easier to write when those two crazy kids are together. 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

"Ryan and Esposito?" Castle asked as he dodged a housekeeping cart.

"Barnes has made himself scarce."

 _How did she walk in an absolutely straight line through all this_ chaos _,_ he wondered as barked a shin on a trash can and hopped after her,  _and so fast._

"Beckett, she's sedated," he flattened himself against a wall as flock of white-coated med students scurried after an attending.

"So I hear," Beckett, of course, went through the group without deviating a step from her course.

"So why are we . . . Sir, I am  _so_ sorry," Castle stopped to lay a hand the arm of the man whose foot he'd just stomped on and got a glare for his trouble.

Beckett was turning the corner at the end of the hallway. He looked both ways and put on an undignified sprint to catch up, "Why are we setting land speed records toward someone who's  _sedated_ ," it started out way too loud and ended as a hiss in her ear when he finally caught up.

She stopped and whipped around, jabbing him hard in the sternum with her index finger for emphasis, " _We_  aren't, Castle.  _I_ am. Because it's good form for a  _cop_  to put in an appearance when a  _material witness_  in a murder case—a material witness who was  _attacked on that cop's doorstep_ —wakes up!"

"Ow!" He grabbed her finger, " _OW!_  Ok. I get it."

"Do you?" She snapped, snatching her hand away.

"Yeah, Beckett, I do," he took her by the shoulders and moved her out of the path of an oncoming gurney. "I'm really not trying to make your life more difficult."

She twisted out of his grasp and lifted her chin, fully prepared to give vent to her frustration.

He pulled back, hands raised warily, the stubborn set of his jaw contrasting with the please-don't-hit-or-yell look in his eyes.

Beckett huffed out something between a laugh and a groan. She rested her head against his shoulder for a fraction of a second and murmured, "I know you're not trying, Castle. It's a gift."

He gave her a wry grin and touched her elbow briefly, "I'm sorry."

She thunked her head against the wall and raised her eyes to the ceiling, "For what? Actually being the one person that anyone connected to this case seems willing to talk to?"

"For all this . . . bullshit keeping you from doing your job," he moved to lean against the wall next to her.

"Thanks," she said. She turned her head to look at him, "Thank you."

He smiled and nodded, "So . . ."

"So," she pushed off from the wall, "I should go talk to this Doctor . . ."

"Finn," he grimaced, "And I should not be there for that. Coffee? We can catch each other up?"

Beckett stifled a chuckle at his hopeful expression, "Let me see what Finn has to say and whether I hear anything from Espo or Ryan. Cafeteria?"

"God, no. Veneiro's is right down the street!" Castle looked stricken.

She rolled her eyes, "Ok . . . I'll let you know if I can't make it. Otherwise, you'll be there for a bit?"

"Yeah," he patted the laptop bag on his shoulder, "I'll set up camp and get some writing done."

"Writing?" she raised her eyebrows, "You're writing again. That's . . . good?"

"Yeah! Your couch is like magic! I woke up yesterday, and I . . . . Definitely magic."

Beckett could have sworn he was blushing.

* * *

"I believe him. Something else was going on that night," Ryan punched the button for the ground floor.

Esposito stared straight ahead, arms crossed over his chest, "Dude's useless, I'm telling you."

"He came right out with it. Admitted he screwed up big time," Ryan followed suit, keeping his eyes on the elevator doors. "Said it'd never happened before."

Esposito snorted as he stepped out into the lobby.

"I'm just saying it's  _possible_ ," Ryan followed him out into the street, "Guy used to be on the job."

"Used to be," Esposito said without turning around. "Couldn't cut it."

"Fifteen  _years_  on the job," Ryan trotted to pull alongside his partner. "Look he was freaking out when we talked to him in the park. Wouldn't you be?"

"If I fucked up and someone got murdered on my watch? Yeah, I guess I would," he popped the locks and strode around to the driver's side of the car.

"What're you doing?"

"Driving," Esposito glared at him over the top of the car.

"But . . . ro-sham-bo!" Ryan was aghast.

"Get in," Esposito snapped, sliding behind the wheel.

Ryan shook his head and got into the passenger seat, "If this is about the horse . . ."

Esposito threw the car back into park, "Don't," he said, raising a finger under Ryan's nose, "Just don't."

Ryan held up both hands, "Ok, ok, man. It's not about . . ."

Esposito slammed into drive and peeled away from the curb.

"The incident," Ryan gripped the armrest. "But look, I'm telling you. Tate was a different guy today. Sharp. Recognized the murder weapon. Wedding planner wanted the waitstaff to match, so she ordered up a dozen or so of those belts."

"That narrows it down then . . . Oh, wait . . ."

Ryan ignored him, "Recognized that the vic's belt was missing. Said he knew for sure that Grayson had been wearing it earlier. And confirmed that Grayson had never stayed behind after Reed left before the night he was murdered. "

"What's your point, bro?" Esposito looked over at him.

"I'm just saying that it's possible he didn't just  _happen_ to fall asleep. Had regular habits: Walked the same route on the same schedule. Packed his lunch," Ryan shook his head, "Shame it's too late to do blood work."

"Yeah," Esposito said, "Good thing he thought to bring that thermos in."

Ryan's head whipped around, "What?"

"Sent it to the lab this morning," Esposito pulled to the curb and switched the car off, "Barnes knows we're looking for him. No way he's going to be sitting in his office, but we gotta start somewhere. Let's go."

"You're a jerk, you know that?" Ryan threw open the car door.

"You love me." Esposito grinned.

* * *

Beckett leaned a hip against the bakery case. For once, the glacial pace of the cafe line was not driving her insane: Watching Castle, instead of the other way around, was a rare opportunity.

He sat at a table against the wall, away from the windows. She watched his fingers fly over the keyboard, his face rapidly shifting expressions. He didn't usually write in public, in part, she knew, because he tended to act out his characters' dialogue and scenes in his head.  _Martha's little_ boy _,_ she thought smiling to herself.

He stopped suddenly, hands poised over the keyboard. A smile spread slowly across his face, softening and smoothing its habitually playful lines. She knew that smile.  _Caught,_ she thought. She raised her hand, giving him a tiny wave as he turned toward her.

"Miss?"

Beckett jumped and whirled to face the counter, "Yes. Sorry! Tall latte, nonfat." She folded her arm behind her back and raised her middle finger at Castle. She could  _feel_ him laughing at her.  _The seasoned detective, startled by the wily barista._

"Miss?" Said barista sounded decidedly testy.

"Sorry, what?" Beckett wiped the smile from her face.

"For here or to go?"

"Um . . . better make it to go," she said with a trace of regret.

Castle rose as she wound her way through the crowded cafe toward his table. He dashed around behind the free chair and pulled it out. He was still smiling.

And given that it was  _that_ smile, it took every ounce of will that Beckett had to keep her poker face, "Castle?"

"Hi," he could  _hear_  how goofy he sounded, but he was powerless to stop it.

"Sit."

"Sorry," he mumbled, still smiling as he slid back into his chair and began tidying away his writing materials.

She waited another beat, then sat.

"How'd it go?" Castle tucked the laptop back into his bag.

"You've made another friend," she slipped the lid off her coffee and blew on it, "Dr. Finn just couldn't stop talking about you."

Castle winced, "I know what you must think, but I swear I . . ."

"Castle, it's fine," she sipped at her drink, "Finn said she was agitated from the minute she started to gain consciousness. Just tell me what happened."

"She was. Agitated, I mean," Castle leaned toward her, "But then she asked about police. I thought she was scared that whoever attacked her might come back, so I told her about the guard. She just lost it."

"She's not afraid  _of_ the guy who attacked her. She's afraid  _for_ him?" Beckett frowned.

"For  _her_. The last thing she said was ' _She_  didn't mean for this to happen'."

" _Audra Winnert_  attacked her?" Beckett kept her voice low.

"I don't know. It's . . . hard to imagine," Castle shrugged.

"Maybe because she  _wanted_ it to be," she raised an eyebrow at him, "What was it she said? 'People will make up a story about you if you let them'?"

Castle half conceded the point with a nod, "But, look . . . Edith Carter was attacked near your apartment," he tapped a spot on the table, "The text was sent from way up here," he traced a line up to her coffee cup.

"Anyone could have sent the text," Beckett shook her head, "She could have handed the phone off to a driver."

"Maybe, but the timing is weird. Why send a text at all, let alone 15 minutes after the attack?" I don't think Audra even knows that Edith Carter was attacked." His words sped up, "I think Audra sent Edith Carter to deliver a message. The meeting was set for 6:30. Audra sends the text at 6:35 so we'd know Edith Carter was telling the truth. She was afraid—for herself  _and_ for the only person she could trust.  _That's_ what she meant by 'Take care of Tillie'."

"If you're right . . .  _If_ , Castle," she held up a hand, "Then who attacked her?"

He deflated, "Surveillance footage?"

"Nothing so far," she sighed, "Ryan had to hand it off when he and Espo went after Barnes."

"Don't suppose Gates would let me . . ."

"Give her at least  _a day_  to miss you," Beckett laughed at his crestfallen look.

"I miss it already," he brushed his fingers across hers as he pulled his hand back to his side of the table.

"It's been 3 hours, Castle," she joked, but her face softened behind her coffee cup.

"What can I say?" He smiled at her, "I'm a lost cause."

A moment slipped by, then another. Beckett finally shook herself, "Castle, there's another reason we should be looking at Audra Winnert . . ."

"Right. Philip Grayson had a lover," Castle shifted back into work mode.

She rolled her eyes, "Why am I even surprised? Let me guess: The wedding planner called you, too?"

"Wedding planner? No," his eyes lit up with a different kind of excitement, "He wasn't sleeping with the wedding planner, was he?"

"No. At least I don't think so," she wrinkled her nose at the sudden image of Bridget Moran haranguing some poor fool in bed. "She didn't think much of Grayson, and she's too practical to risk such a big payday for a fling."

"No," Castle said absently, "No . . . it wasn't a fling."

"Castle, how did you even know Grayson was having an affair?"

"What? Oh, the autopsy photo," his eyes dropped to the table, "I . . . uh . . . had a dream."

"A dream about autopsy photos," Beckett looked at him curiously, but for once, she found his expression unreadable, "Maybe you  _do_ need some time away from the precinct."

"Not about autopsy photos," he said quickly, "The mark on Grayson's collarbone."

"You went from that to 'lover'? He  _was_ engaged. Although I admit I find it hard to picture Audra Winnert . . ." she shook her head, "Anyway, you obviously have a theory. Let's hear it."

"There's just the one mark, placed just so," he kept his face tipped toward the table, but his eyes drifted up to hers, "It's . . . tentative. Exploratory, but . . . passionate. Whoever it was . . . they were in love. But I think that . . . the physical part . . . was new."

"Ah," she said.  _Repeating yourself,_ she thought as she warred with a giddy smile. "That's a lot to read into one hickey."

"Love bite," he lowered his voice to an exaggerated, husky whisper, breaking the tension with a smile, "Don't cheapen it, Beckett."

She laughed, "Fine, love bite. But I've got bad news for your theory: Bridget Moran's  _professional_ opinion was Grayson had been burned recently."

"Not necessarily bad news," Castle said, mulling it over, "Sex changes things. Makes things more complicated. Two people who—even two people in love—who might have compelling reasons  _not_ to take that step, then they do, and one of them gets . . ."

She listened with amusement until he trailed off and looked up at her, horrified.

" _Not_ that it  _has_  to be like that," he babbled, "It can be great! Wonderful! Especially when they've  _waited_ and  _waited_  and gotten all the  _baggage_  . . . "

"Castle, breathe," she patted his hand, trying to keep her face serious. "It's not a bad thought."

"It's . . . not?"

"No, think about it: If Grayson's playing a role, he probably doesn't have any feelings for Audra. . . ."

"He meets someone, but it's complicated," Castle grabbed his notebook.

"Maybe he needs to finish the job," she offered, "Maybe he's in it for the money."

"So the tension between them builds and boom!"

"Maybe I'm just desperate here," she shot him a look that said  _don't even_ , "But that at least there's motive in that."

"For Grayson, maybe," he looked uneasy at the thought of poking holes in his own theory, "But then why attack Carter . . . or Audra, if she was the real target?"

"First things first. Whoever left that mark on Grayson is someone we need to talk to," Beckett chewed her lip, "So how do we find the secret lover of a vic that didn't really exist."

"Oooh," Castle rubbed his hands together, "Tell me what Ryan came up with to complement my brilliant detective work on the PI file? "

"Grayson's legal identity, is good, but not great," she decided to let his self congratulation go for once. "Social, driver's license, birth certificate are all good enough not to raise any red flags immediately. But Philip Grayson has only existed for about a year."

"So, better than coyote papers, not quite as good as a Witness Protection Program identity," Castle made a note.

"Sounds about right," she said, "Normally, I'd think we were looking at con man. . . "

"But a con man would've made himself look better," he nodded eagerly, "That PI report—all the minor run-ins with the law, a little bit of bad boy, but not too much. Enough to make Clayton Winnert think there was no point in digging any deeper. It's about making him fade into the woodwork."

"So, Grayson was playing a part . . ."

"But not a part he wrote," Castle finished.

Beckett's phone buzzed half a second before Castle's chimed.

"It's Esposito," she said, "I have to . . ."

"Alexis," his eyes flicked anxiously from the screen to Beckett's face. "Do you mind? I . . ."

"Espo, hang on one second," she held the phone to her shoulder and stood, "It's fine, I've got to go anyway, you . . . " she touched his shoulder, "Try not to say anything stupid."

He reached up and placed his fingers on top of hers, "What are the odds?"

* * *

"Ryan's fine _. . ._ " Esposito assured Beckett.

"I am  _not fine_ ," Ryan shouted from the passenger's seat.

" _Barnes' girlfriend got the drop on you? When are you gonna learn to stop underestimating us?"_

"Yeah, yeah, girl power, Beckett," Esposito replied, "Office looked empty, but the door wasn't quite closed, so we headed in. She thought it was Barnes coming back and got Ryan right in the . . . "

"Do you  _have_  to dwell on it?" Ryan sounded like he was still feeling the pain.

" _You're lucky she didn't_ shoot  _you_.  _Did she say how long he'd been gone?_ "

"That's the funny thing, Beckett . . ."

"Not funny, 'ha ha'," Ryan added sullenly.

Esposito made a face at him, "She says Barnes took off before I started asking around about him. Left her a message yesterday around 3 PM, saying he had work out of town."

" _Girlfriend doesn't believe him, I take it?"_ Beckett asked.

"Says that's usually code for him having a few bucks in his pocket and heading for Atlantic City," he looked over to Ryan who nodded and held up his own phone, "Ryan put out the word to our friends there. Working on phone records, but life'll be easier if we can lay hands on Barnes."

"Hold up," Ryan said, "I've got something on the phone records"

"Already?" He leaned over to read off Ryan's screen. "Whoa . . . that's . . ."

" _What? Espo,"_ Beckett sounded testy,  _"What've you got?"_

"We don't have Barnes' phone records yet, but we've got someone going over Audra Winnert's," Esposito smile, "Guess whose number she called at 2:30 yesterday afternoon?"

" _Dad! How are you? It is_ so _hot down here!_ " Alexis's exuberance was always infectious, even when he was worried sick about her.

"I'm fine, sweetie," Castle gathered the last of his things and smiled at a young couple who were eager to snap up his newly vacated table, "Hot here, too."

" _So what were all the messages about? Did Gina blow something up to retaliate?"_

He blinked into the sunlight and considered his options. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have while yelling over late morning traffic. He flagged a cab on the grounds that it would be nominally quieter.

"No. At least not yet," he said sliding into the back seat and quickly muttering the address to the driver, "She did get past Mother, so I'll have to change the locks again."

Alexis laughed,  _"Just don't 'forget' to give Gram a key this time."_

Castle steeled himself. His daughter's bright, uncomplicated laughter wasn't making it any easier to broach the subject, "I won't forget. Alexis, listen, I wasn't calling about Gina."

" _Oh? What's up?"_

"Well, I'm worried about something," he thought he heard voices in the background and hesitated. "You're not alone, are you?"

" _Dad, there_ is _, no 'alone' here. We're_   _6 to a tent. Right now I'm in the mess, so there's like 50 people. But I can listen_ ," her sincere tone made Castle's heart ache.  _"Is it the book? I know it feels like it's never been this bad before, but remember_ Storm Approaching _?"_

"No, no. It's not the book," he ran a hand through his hair, "Actually, I'm writing again. I'm through about 2 chapters of the new ending."

" _That's great!"_ She squealed in delight and he could hear friends in the background asking her questions,  _"How'd you do it? Did you listen to that Decemberists playlist I left you? I_ knew _that would work!"_

"I have been listening, but actually it was Beckett. We . . . she . . . I had a breakthrough while we were working on this case," he stuttered.

The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Here he was, tripping over himself to avoid any mention of his own forays into new relationship ( _Relationship? Yes, damn it! Relationship!_ ) territory while simultaneously trying to figure out how to get his 18-year-old daughter to 'fess up about her own potential sexcapades ( _Sexcapades? Ugh!_ ).

" _A case! Anything fun?"_

His brain was still dealing with the irony, and he was a bit slow to answer, "Oh, fun. Fairy tale castle, horses."

" _That huge wedding in Central Park? We were all just talking about that!"_

Castle heard a voice in the background shout, " _She did it! The creepy girl-bride did it!"_ He sighed.  _Not the time_.

Alexis shushed her friend, and A peal of laughter erupted in the background,  _"Sorry about that. Do you think she did do it, though?"_

"Too soon to tell for sure, but . . . no, I don't think so."

" _I know, it's never the girlfriend,"_ Alexis laughed.  _"Is a fiancée still a girlfriend? Maybe the rules don't apply."_

"Maybe not," he agreed.

" _Besides, they weren't very boyfriend-girlfriend-y."_

"They weren't?" Castle was confused, "How . . .?"

" _Don't you remember Gram going crazy over the article when it came out? I think she was scrapbooking it,"_ he could picture her shaking her head fondly.

"I try to suppress all memories of Mother that involve glue, scissors, or other sharp objects," he said absently. "What do you mean about them not being very boyfriend-girlfriend-y? Also, please remember that you're a daughter of a writer and never use that phrase again."

" _Well, he hardly said anything in the interview. And it was kind of like he was there for a photo opportunity,"_ she hesitated,  _"And . . ."_

"And what?"

" _Well, I don't like to repeat it, because I_ know _you can't tell just by looking at someone."_

"Tell what?"

" _You know how Gram is. She said that she gave them less than a year before the groom left the bride for the pool boy."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Long before now, I should have acknowledged the excellent Dustjackets Castle Wiki (.com). The site is invaluable for trying to get details right (I got Beckett's coffee order wrong early on in the story before I knew about the site) and to move things around the show's setting in what I hope is a remotely realistic way.


	11. Chapter 11

 

* * *

Gates had been preternaturally still for long enough that Beckett, Ryan, and Esposito began to wonder if she'd fallen asleep. Or died. Her elbows were placed precisely in the center on her desk blotter. Her eyes were closed, and the bridge of her nose rested lightly on the tips of her steepled fingers.

 _Say something,_ Esposito mouthed, looking at Beckett.

 _Why me?_ Beckett glared back.

Ryan and Esposito shared a look, and Ryan rubbed his thumb and fingers together,  _You make the big bucks, Boss._

Beckett rolled her eyes.  _Fine_ , she thought,  _we're burning daylight anyway._  She was still casting about for a plausible opening, when Gates finally spoke.

"We're almost 36 hours into this investigation," the Captain's eyes were still closed, and her tone was calmer than any they'd heard in the 10 months they'd worked under her. It was terrifying, "36 hours. And you're telling me that our victim  _doesn't exist_?"

"Not exactly, sir," Beckett dove in, "he's just . . . not who we thought he was."

"Or he's not who he . . . " Ryan began.

". . . or someone," Beckett put in.

"Wanted us to think he was," Ryan finished with his most winning smile,

"And this is based on . . .?" Gates finally opened her eyes.

"The PI Clayton Winnert hired to investigate Grayson," Esposito decided to contribute to the effort, "did a runner."

"And his background check on Grayson?" Ryan shook his head, "It feels off, sir."

"It  _feels_ off." Gates homed in on Beckett, "Now who does that sound like?"

"It was Castle's catch, Captain," Beckett replied evenly, "and it was a good one."

Ryan nodded, "I hit a dead end on Grayson's shrink. Started digging deeper and the cracks started showing. This isn't just about identity fraud or getting lost officially. Someone built this guy from the ground up for a reason."

"Someone?" Gates the boss relaxed. Gates the cop sat up and took notice.

Beckett smiled, "Well, sir, normally, we'd be looking at Grayson himself . . ."

"No, no . . . a con who'd go after Winnert money would have everything in place. That PI file raises just enough red flags to make him seem like a real person, but not enough to make him look good," Gates broke in.

For a fleeting moment, Beckett entertained the idea of telling her Captain that Castle had, essentially, said the same thing. Then she remembered that, on the whole, she valued her life and loved her job.

She settled for nodding, "That's pretty much where we've landed, sir. No fingerprint or DNA hits, either, so he doesn't have any priors. It's unlikely that an inexperienced con would've gotten this far."

"So Grayson's a hired hand," Gates's penetrating gaze rested on each of her three detectives in turn. "Who hired him?"

The three exchanged looks. Beckett suppressed a sigh and took the hit, "Sir. Phone records show that Audra Winnert - or someone in possession of her phone - called Len Barnes shortly before he left town yesterday."

Gates rubbed her temples, "And what's our read on that?"

"A few possibilities," Beckett admitted. "The simplest is that she didn't want to leave the investigation to the police and was considering bringing Barnes in."

"Barnes is a small time dirt digger," Esposito shook his head. "Doesn't seem likely given the big names Clayton Winnert has on speed dial."

"Maybe she just found out that daddy ran a background check on her sweetie and wanted to do know what the guy found out," Ryan shrugged. "Wrap her head around who might've killed him."

"But you think she's the one who paid off Barnes to write the phony report for her father, don't you, Detective," Gates said to Beckett.

"I do, sir. It fits the timeline for when she told us that they'd met. She talked about her father not knowing that the wedding was actually happening 'for ages'," Beckett spread her hands, "I think she made her own Prince Charming from scratch."

"Anything else?" Gates slid open her desk drawer and retrieved a bottle of aspirin. "I don't think it's possible to have two migraines at the same time, so let's get this all out now."

"Sir, based on the autopsy findings, as well as Bridget Moran's impressions of some recent changes in the vic's demeanor, we have reason to believe that Mr. Grayson was involved in a sexual relationship," Beckett said slowly.

"Is that a silent 'with someone other than his fiancée' I hear, Detective?"

"Without being able to question Audra Winnert, it's speculation, it's looking that way," she answered.

"Doesn't that give Grayson a potential accomplice?" Gates looked a bit eager. All three detective sympathized: A con with an accomplice would make everyone's life so much easier than an heiress with some mind-bendingly complicated scheme.

"It's something to consider," Beckett acknowledged, "but we have reason to believe the relationship was recent. Which puts it in another light."

"Motive," Gates poured out a fistful of aspirin and swallowed them dry.

* * *

"Mother!" Castle dumped his bag next to the door and moved into the kitchen. Faint wisps of steam rose from splashes of coffee pooling in the bottom of the sink."Mother, I know you're here. Stop cowering."

A hand curled around the corner of the entrance to the kitchen, followed by one wary eye, "Darling! I didn't think you'd be home today!"

"Obviously," he said drily. "Did you sleep at the school last night?"

"Oh, yes, you know," Martha glided into the kitchen, carefully keeping the breakfast bar between them, "working on that new Acting Out the Superego course and all of a sudden it was the wee hours. I just nipped home this morning to change, I'll be out of your hair . . ."

"We've talked about this before, Mother," he folded his arms across his chest.

"Richard, I'm  _sorry_ ," she held out her hands to him, "Gina played me. I was all caught up in my grand plans for the school, she dropped by and fed me a line about publishing some of the school's course materials. Oh, your mother is a  _fool_!"

He held his stern pose for another beat, then took her hands, "But a lovable fool. And I need her help."

"A fool at your service," Martha kissed his cheek and pulled up a stool at the counter.

Castle retrieved two mugs and poured them both coffee, "I spoke to Alexis a little while ago."

"Oh! How  _is_  she? That girl has the biggest heart in the world! Most of her friends are kicking off a final summer of debauchery before college and she's off saving the world! You done good with her, kiddo."

His stomach clenched a little.  _Debauchery._  He scrubbed a hand across his face. Plaza reservation notwithstanding, he knew his mother was right. He'd gotten about as lucky as it was possible to get with his daughter.

"Not sure how much I had to do with it," he smiled, "but listen, this case Beckett's working . . ."

"Yes! The fairy tale murder! That's why I was so surprised to find you here," her face fell. "You and Kate aren't . . . on the outs again?"

"No!" Castle looked affronted, "why would you think that?"

Martha gave an apologetic shrug, "Summer approaches. The two of you . . . well, darling, there's a pattern."

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. His mother was right, of course. They'd spent three summers running in opposite directions. Nine months' worth of miles placed carefully, deliberately between them. And every fall, nothing to show for it but needless wear and tear on the two of them and a bond that grew stronger in spite of their manhandling of it.

"Trying something new this year," he said simply.

"So why aren't you out there questioning big bad wolves and wicked stepmothers?"

"Gates," Castle scowled, "would prefer that I make myself scarce, but I'm still on the case.

"She still hasn't succumbed to your charms?" Martha lowered her voice conspiratorially, "Are we sure she's entirely human?"

"I have my doubts. But for the moment I'm working the angles the police can't quite get to, which is why I need your help. You've been following the wedding?"

"Following? Darling, I haven't been able to take my eyes off it all year," she clapped in delight. "Fantastic potential for costume drama." She slid from the stool and made for the stairs. "Give me one minute, dear."

She sailed back in with an oversized album, dripping with clippings, "Now! Ask me anything!" she dropped back on to the stool and planted her elbows on the counter.

"The groom—Philip Grayson—what's your take on him," Castle flipped open the album and tapped a photo. Audra Winnert sat at table, bent over an array of fabric samples. Philip leaned over her, his hand on her shoulder, an awkward, exaggerated smile of interest plastered on his face. Castle thought back to the unmitigated horror of some of his earliest publicity shoots and cringed in sympathy.

"Poor darling," she clucked her tongue, "not pulling it off, is he?"

"What, exactly?"

"Look how he's touching her! Like he's posing with a prize fish!"

"So you're saying he's not in love with her," Castle prompted.

" _That'_ s the understatement of the year," she flipped through the album's pages, her fingers lighting on Grayson's image.

"But it's a bit of a stretch to say he's . . . batting for the home team, isn't it?"

"We just say gay these days, dear," Martha deadpanned.

"That's what I'm  _saying!"_  he looked defensive, "I mean it's not such a big deal these days is it?"

"I'm afraid you're oversimplifying, Richard. It  _is_  and it  _isn't_  a big deal." She shook her head sadly, "We like to think we've come so far, but really, the world can still be a very unkind place. People make assumptions . . . "

"Even when you don't mean to," Castle murmured, "it just never occurred to me."

"Well, I have the advantage of you, dear. It's simply more out there in the theater. And even when someone isn't  _out there_ , because believe me darling Rock Hudson is not a thing of the past, you get to recognize the signs of someone playing a role."

"Still, man of the world like me?" he said with a brief grin. "What about Audra? Do you think she knew?"

"Absolutely," Martha grabbed a sheaf of loose clippings from the back of the album. She slid a glossy magazine sidebar across the counter to him, "Ah, here we are! Look at the way they're holding hands here. They didn't know the photographer was there. They're relaxed. Affectionate."

"But not in love," he nodded, "reminds me of Alexis and her first 'boyfriend' when she was 10. Their relationship centered on an obsession with the Summer Olympics and our superior satellite package."

Martha laughed, "Anyway, yes, I'd say she knew. And I think they were friends. At least I hope they were. He looks like he could've used a friend."

"But what about Audra? Why would  _she_ want to marry someone she wasn't in love with?"

"The poor girl had been planning her dream wedding for 20 years! Maybe she was just tired of waiting."

"It just seems strange for such a romantic . . . to settle like that?"

Martha nodded, "It  _is_  odd, I'll grant you. But, darling, people get married for all sorts of reasons.  _You_ should know that!" she placed her hand over his to soften the jibe.

"Thank you for reminding me, Mother."

"I'm just saying maybe there was something practical at stake."

"Practical," Castle sipped his coffee and scanned the array of clippings spread over the counter. "Like what?"

"Money, property, family," Martha slapped lightly at his arm, "Don't you remember you almost had a breakdown when you realized that Meredith was your next of kin?"

"I do," he answered absently. "I had nightmares about her keeping my disembodied head alive to write romance novels in a harlequin sweatshop."

"Anyway, don't sell that girl short. For all the princess hullabaloo, she's sharp. She stole a march on more than one collector planning that wedding."

"Not to mention her father."

"Oooh, what's  _he_  like?" Martha's eyes took on a predatory gleam.

"Appalling. You should definitely marry him and take him for everything he has," Castle replied with a sour look. His generic ringtone sounded, "Unknown . . . Gina?"

She waved off his hard stare, "I doubt it. You terrified her."

"This is how she gets around you," he pointed accusingly, "she's convinced you that she's human and she knows fear. Rick Castle."

 _"Mr. Castle,"_  the voice was so tearful, it was difficult to understand,  _"Is she ok? Please tell me she's safe!"_

"Audra," he jolted up from the stool and grabbed the house phone. He shoved it into Martha's hand and mouthed  _Call Beckett._ "Ms. Winnert, my God! Are  _you_ ok? Where are . . ."

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Castle's mind raced in a dozen different directions.  _Keep her on the line_.

The thought scarcely had time to bloom before his Internal Beckett ( _I have an Internal Beckett?_ ) chided,  _No one's tracing the call, idiot. Just listen and get her to talk. Find out where she is._

_Listen! Right. Background noises!_

Internal Beckett sighed,  _And_ words.  _She's talking right now_.

" _I didn't know,"_  she sobbed,  _"I didn't know until she was late calling. I . . . I found a newspaper, and oh my God . . ."_

"Audra, Edith . . . Tillie is stable, but she's very worried for you. Where are you? I can come to you."

Yet another part of Castle's brain was keeping track of Martha's progress.

"I'm sorry, darling, she didn't pick up her cell, and some officious little twit at that precinct has me . . . I don't care  _what_ she's doing . . ."

"I . . . someone's noticed us. We're not safe," she choked back her tears, "Mr. Castle,  _please_ look after Tillie. I'll try . . . I'll get in touch."

* * *

Beckett tended to side with Ryan on the issue of Norman Tate. Fifty-something, balding, and a little soft around the middle, she still sensed he'd be handy in a fight, and she liked his straightforward answers.

"Well, Mr. Tate," she slid the lab report on the thermos across to him, "you were right. The lab found traces of demerol in your coffee thermos."

"Ok," Tate exhaled, "ok. So what next?"

She smiled, "I was hoping you'd say that. I know you've been over that night more than once . . ."

"Let's go again. That night . . . every thing feels strange. Out of order. I couldn't even tell you how I ended up in that shack."

"It's ok Mr. Tate, you've been actually been very helpful," Beckett assured him. "Let's look at this a different way, maybe that'll shake something loose."

"I'm game."

"You've said that the night of the murder was quiet. That was unusual?"

"Yeah," Tate shrugged, "Most nights lately, the place was all lit up, people everywhere, crazy costumes."

"But Mr. Grayson was alone that night," she prompted. "Did you notice anything unusual about him? Any change in behavior or demeanor?"

"I didn't really know him. He was an ok guy, I guess, but all the . . . tights?" he made a face. "Wasn't a lot of common ground. Nice enough guy, I guess."

"Still, you're one of the few people who seems to have noticed that Philip Grayson was alive at all. Anything you might have noticed would be helpful."

"I think," Tate scrubbed a hand through what was left of his hair, "he seemed a little lost. With Reed, they worked with the horse. Looked exhausting. Grayson was mostly working around it that night. Seemed like he was at loose ends."

"He was afraid of horses," Beckett nodded, "without Reed . . ."

"Maybe," Tate looked dissatisfied, "Like I said, I didn't really know him, but I guess I'd say he seemed upset? And I think he was chattier than usual."

"You talked with him?"

"Yeah," he nodded suddenly, "I did. I mean, we'd said hello and goodbye before, but I feel like . . ." he trailed off in a frustrated growl.

"Take your time, Mr. Tate," Beckett tried not to sound too eager.

"I think I gave him some coffee."

* * *

 

" _Short half life. Might not have ingested much. Those little thermos-top cups,"_  Lanie did not sound happy,  _"I can only tell you that it did_ not  _show up in the labs."_

"But it could have affected him?" Beckett wasn't inclined to pour salt in Lanie's wounds. She and her friend were opposites in many ways, but they both held themselves to sometimes unreasonably high professional standards. But she was even less inclined to let go of any lead, however small.

" _Bearing in mind that it's been a long time since I attended to a patient with a pulse—other than you—was a long while ago, I seem to recall that Demerol and antidepressants don't mix."_

"How so?" Beckett stared at the murder board.

" _It can cause a reaction called Seratonin Syndrome. Causes a bunch of physical symptoms and it can play merry hell with mental status: Disorientation, hallucinations. No blood test for it, though."_

"Think it explains why he didn't resist?"

" _Might help,"_ Lanie sounded apologetic.  _"Anything else new?"_

"Audra Winnert might have paid the PI to fake a report on Grayson," Beckett sighed

" _What? Why the hell would she do that?"_

"I'm open to suggestions. And Philip Grayson was probably cheating on her."

" _Oooh. Hello, motive! Hell hath no fury . . ."_

Beckett heard some kind of commotion in the background.

" _No! Not the motive!"_

"Is that . . . ?" Beckett found herself whispering for no good reason.

" _Castle, what the hell are you doing here?"_

" _Is that Beckett?"_

She heard a brief struggle and the familiar sound of Castle in pain, "Don't . . . hurt him too much. Lanie?"

" _No it's me!"_ he sounded excited, in spite of the pain. Beckett imagined him bouncing on the balls of his feet,  _"Hi,"_ he added in a soft, shy tone.

Beckett blushed, "Castle, what are you doing there?"

" _What are_ you _doing? You don't pick up the phone, you don't answer messages?"_

"What? I was following a lead. I didn't have time to decipher some incomprehensible message from your mother."

" _Mother,"_ Castle made an impatient noise,  _"it doesn't matter. Can you come down to the morgue? Or can we meet somewhere, I have . . ."_

"I don't think so. Lanie can catch you up. It's likely that Audra Winnert was the one who paid off Barnes to write that report . . .

" _Really? That actually . . ."_

"And we're still running down leads on who Philip Grayson was involved with . . ."

" _Oh, Andrew Reed. Beckett, listen to me . . ."_

"Andrew  _Reed?"_ Beckett's volume drew the attention of half the bullpen, "How the hell did you jump to . . ."

"Beckett.  _Audra Winnert called me 15 minutes ago!"_

"She  _what?_ Castle, hold on,"Beckett hissed as she gestured furiously to Esposito and spoke rapidly as he approached, "Audra Winnert called Castle . . . your cell phone, Castle?"

" _Yeah, I had mother call you from the land line, but she hung up."_

Beckett nodded to Esposito.

"On it." He jogged back to his desk and grabbed his desk phone.

"I'm on my way to the morgue, Castle."

" _Wait, Beckett! She said_ 'We're _not safe.' Tell Ryan and Esposito that Audra Winnert is traveling with someone."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Kind of a talky, nookie-poor chapter. But Martha! I love writing Martha! Why haven't I written Martha before? Plot things are coming together, I promise. 
> 
>  
> 
>  


	12. Chapter 12

  
Castle smiled to himself, his heart speeding up a bit in anticipation. He tucked his phone away and turned to find Lanie standing just inches from him.

Her arms were folded across her chest. She was holding . . . well, he wasn't sure  _what_  she was holding, but it looked dangerous as it casually dangled from one hand. She had  _that_ look on her face—the one that still made Esposito break out into a cold sweat. Castle's heart began to pound in earnest.

"What happened?"

"What . . . what? You mean about Audra Winnert?" Castle tried for a look somewhere between hopeful and innocent.

"No, Castle, I do not mean about Audra Winnert," her voice was dead calm.

"Then I," he instinctively backed away from her, straight into an instrument tray, "am not sure to what you are referring."

Her body didn't move an inch. She simply followed him with her eyes, "Don't play with me, Castle."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Lan . . . Dr. Parish. I just . . . there's a lot going on. Some clarification . . ."

" _Hiiiiiiiiiii,"_  Lanie clasped her hands under one ear and fluttered her eyelashes. Somehow, this did not make whatever implement of death she was holding look any less dangerous.

A look of horror crept on to his face, "Good God, tell me I don't sound like that."

"I was being kind."

"Uggghhh, I  _hate_  myself," he slumped against the counter, "I just have no . . . she just . . . I feel like I'm 16 years old!"

"Isn't that a good thing?" she asked.

"No!" he looked disgusted, "I wouldn't be 16 again for the world."

"You're stalling, Castle. What. happened?" she gave him a look that said  _Don't make me give you_ the  _look again._

Castle took a deep breath, "Lanie, you know that Beckett is a very private person, and I feel like I need to respect . . ."

" _Oh my God, you finally did it!_ "

"What? No! I . . . kissed her . . . she kissed me . . .  _we kissed!"_  he slapped both hands over his mouth as his voice filled the lab and reverberated back.

Lanie's head dropped back and she let out a belly laugh. It went on long enough that Castle went from being filled with self-loathing to taking offense.

"What's so funny?"

" _You_ ," Lanie wiped her eyes, "The  _two_ of you! You  _kissed_  and you're all starry-eyed and ' _hiiiii'_. . . oh, don't you glare at me, Castle. I have been on girlfriend call for 4 years. I have peeled her off the ceiling and let her cry on my shoulder and  _now_ I get to laugh."

"Cry? There was crying? Over me?" he didn't know whether to be hopeful or appalled.

"It was a metaphor. Except for the sangria incident 2 summers ago," she stared him down, "and  _that_ is all I have to say about that."

"Yeah, but . . . "

"That's all, Castle," she held up a hand. "She admit it?"

"Admit what?" Castle looked startled.

"That it happened," Lanie looked at him like he was mentally challenged.

"We haven't had a chance to talk about it, really."

She rolled her eyes, "Here we go.  _Again._ "

"Again? Wait. We . . . I told her that we weren't  _not_  going to talk about it this time and she said okay," he knew before he finished that he'd been tricked.

" _This_ time. So there's a  _'_ that other time' time. I  _knew it_."

"You are diabolical!"

"No, I'm good. And a little diabolical," Lanie smirked, "so spill."

"It wasn't even a real . . ." he said quickly, "I mean . . . it was just a . . . Wait.How did you know?"

"You first."

"We needed a distraction. To get Esposito and Ryan back when Lockwood grabbed them," he wanted to stop talking. He really did. But that  _look_ , "We were pretending to be stumbling drunk, the lookout wasn't buying it. Beckett went for her gun, but I figured our odds were better with the element of surprise, so I stopped her . . ."

"You stopped Beckett— _Kate_  Beckett—from drawing her gun. By kissing her," Lanie looked entirely delighted.

Castle knew he was in trouble, but he wasn't exactly sure how, "But you said 'again' and 'this time.' You said you knew!"

"Just because I don't do interrogations doesn't mean I can't, Castle," she smiled sweetly. "So what about this time?"

"I fell asleep on her couch," he said weakly.

"And she jumped you? Good for her! 'Bout damn time."

"No, I . . . I woke up, and I guess I must've made a sound. I've had this writer's block for weeks, and . . ."

"Castle, Beckett is going to walk through that door in the next five minutes, and before she does, I  _will_ have details. Stay on topic," Lanie casually put down the tool she'd been holding and inspected its fellows on the tray.

"I woke up and she was, like  _right there_  and I needed something to write with," he stammered.

"Castle!"

"I'm trying to tell you! She'd stolen my pencil earlier to do that  _thing._ The twisty, chopstick thing women do with their hair sometimes. So I pulled the pencil out of her hair," he shrugged desperately, "and it just seemed rude not to . . . I mean her lips were  _right there_!"

"You said she kissed you," Lanie narrowed her eyes.

"She did," Castle nodded as though reassuring himself that it had really happened. "I . . . was going to say . . . I don't know what I was going to say, because  _that's_  what she does to me. To me! I don't know what to say!"

"And she kissed you," she nodded somberly. "That's a good sign."

"You think so? I mean it's better than many of the alternatives I've imagined, though not as good as some . . ."

Lanie made a sharp gesture with her hand and pivoted toward the doors as they swung open, "Kate!"

"Castle, I'm going to ask questions and you're going to answer in as few words as possible," Beckett stood in front of the doors as though she expected him to run.

"Beckett, hi," Castle gave a small wave and died inside a little. Again.

"Castle!"

"Sorry," he pressed his lips together and waited.

She watched him until she was reasonably satisfied that he'd comply, "Ok. The phone call: I assume she didn't say where she was?"

He waited.

"Castle?"

"That was more of a statement . . ."

"Castle!" she took a step toward him.

He took one to the side to put the autopsy table between them.

"No. She didn't. She's hiding, but she didn't say where," he looked like he wanted to add more but wasn't sure whether to risk it.

"Anything you noticed that might help narrow it down?" Beckett's look warned him not to embellish.

"Somewhere secluded and off the grid," he winced at her warning look. "She was waiting for a call—I assume from Edith Carter—and when it didn't come, she said she found a newspaper, so I assume she's staying offline. When she made the call, she was afraid someone had spotted 'them'."

"So she's got a hidey hole but one that's close enough to pick up a newspaper," Lanie looked thoughtful. "Why make the call in public?"

"She was upset," Castle said, "maybe just an impulse."

"Maybe," Beckett admitted, "or she didn't want to make the call from where she was actually hiding."

Castle nodded, "She's not using her cell phone any more. Caller ID was blocked."

"Let's hope she was just using *67 and not anything fancier," Beckett exhaled through her teeth.

"Is that even likely?" Lanie looked skeptical, "That Ms. Fairy Tale Princess is like . . . a master of evasion?"

"Can't sell her short. She's tech savvy, managed to fly below radar for years in a pretty exclusive circle . . ." Castle's head snapped toward Beckett.

"Her collection," she smiled, "that'd leave a money trail."

"And an identity she's comfortable using."

Beckett's smile widened, "She was sending all those auction pieces somewhere. Might be a place she'd hide."

 

* * *

 

"Johnson, you're back," Ryan greeted the uniform approaching his desk. "Canvas turn up anything?"

"Coffee shop. Half a mile northeast of Beckett's place," Johnson dropped a take-out menu on the desk. "Nothing concrete. Place was busy. Assistant manager can't say what time she arrived, but she confirms that Edith Carter was there, alone, at 5:30 and gone by 5:55. Not much to go on."

"Better than nothing," Ryan shrugged, "and it helps prioritize surveillance footage. Gives us a probable route she walked."

"I thought of that," Johnson said eagerly, pulling out his smart phone. "Not a lot of NYPD eyes in the area, but the flags on this map show the locations of ATMs and convenience stores along the shortest walking route to Beckett's apartment."

"That helps," he punched the address of the coffee shop into his browser to replicate the map. "Nice work, Johnson. Do me a favor and drop by the media room. Give those locations to Muñoz. Tell him to bump those feeds to the top of the list."

The officer nodded and headed out. Ryan turned back to his monitor. A new email had popped up. He clicked it open and scanned the message.

"Yes!" he spun his chair to face Esposito.

His partner scowled and covered the mouthpiece of his desk phone, "You finally got something?"

"Good news, bad news," Ryan slapped out a rhythm on the edge of Esposito's desk. "Barnes made a bunch of calls to the same number, starting around 6 pm the night before the murder, last one 1:46 AM morning of."

"Do I have any choice?" Esposito snapped into the receiver then covered the mouthpiece again. "About an hour before the murder. Bad news?"

"Number belongs to a pay-as-you-go. Bought with cash," Ryan said, "but guess where the handset belonging to that number was when Barnes was calling it?"

"Somewhere useful?"

"In the neighborhood of 86th and Central Park West," he smiled, "right into the wee hours of the morning."

"Near the castle. Nice!" Esposito held up a hand. "Yeah I'm here."

Ryan trotted over to the murder board and made some notes under the picture of Len Barnes.

"Yeah, I get it," Esposito snapped and hung up the phone, "Audra Winnert is still in the state. Or was when she called Castle."

"That's . . . vague."

"Wide open spaces and crappy cell coverage," Esposito gestured to the map he'd pulled up on his monitor, "somewhere in between Tarrytown and Westchester."

Ryan peered over his shoulder, "Why would she come into the city, then head back toward home, but not  _go_  home?"

"Could've been dropping off the housekeeper in the city, could've been meeting up with Barnes," Esposito shoved his notepad across his desk, "Could've been picking up tickets to  _Cats_."

"What's this?" Ryan pointed to a series of numbers across the top of the pad.

"Burner cell phone she called Castle from, why?"

"That's familiar," Ryan moved to his own desk and pulled up the window with Barnes' phone records. He copied a number on to the pad, "Check it out. That's the number Barnes was calling the night of the murder. They're the same except for the last number."

"Hell of a coincidence," Esposito slapped the pad, "Probably bought from the same vendor at the same time."

"Another connection between Barnes and the bride?"

"Yeah, but Barnes wasn't calling her that night," Esposito pointed to the murder board. "She was at some run-up to the wedding event most of the night. People, media. She wasn't in Central Park."

"Not like she'd be the hands-on type if she did it, right? Maybe Barnes was her go-between," Ryan mimed a gun with his fingers, "gave the order."

"Maybe," Esposito picked up a marker and added some notes to the board. "Why kill him there, though? Especially if it's a contract job, not some love-makes-you-crazy deal."

"Yeah . . . why not make him disappear?"

"All we know for sure is we've got Barnes calling the park the night of the murder, and at least two connections between Audra Winnert and the sleazy PI."

"Hang on a minute," Ryan's desk phone rang, "Ryan."

Esposito snagged the marker from Ryan's desk and stepped over to the board. He drew two dotted line connecting Barnes and Audra Winnert.

"You sure?" Ryan asked the person on the other end of the phone, "No, that's great, Muñoz. Send me the clips."

"What's up?"

"Make that three connections," Ryan pointed to the board, "Barnes shows up on 3 security cameras each time about 60 seconds after Edith Carter.

"He was with the housekeeper?"

"Not  _with_  her. Following her."

"Coulda been keeping eyes on her," Esposito didn't even sound like he was convincing himself.

"Or, he could be the one who attacked her," Ryan craned his neck toward the elevator.

"What're you looking for?" Esposito followed his glance.

"Beckett," Ryan said, "Seems like something  _she_  should break to the Captain."

* * *

 

"It's still kind of a reach," Beckett's long strides ate up the sidewalk in chunks.

 _Deja vu_ , thought Castle as he trotted to keep up, "Not really. Reed's the only person who knew Grayson at all. The only person who spent a considerable amount of time with him. Hell, the only person who spent  _any_ time with him."

"You're right, and we'll follow up on it," she shook her head, "I'll just have to think of something other than your mother's gaydar to tell Gates to justify the leg work."

"Well, think about it: If Audra Winnert  _did_  create Philip Grayson, it kind of makes sense. No possibility of romantic entanglements. Strictly a business relationship," he trailed off as she threw him an odd look over her shoulder.

"Yeah, no complications there."

"You don't really think she did it, do you? I mean, how does it make sense?" Castle knew where she was going next and headed her off at the pass, "Even if you don't buy my mother's take on their relationship."

"Maybe he was backing out of the deal," she said shortly.

"She's not the Godfather, Beckett," he shot back, "Why kill him? And like that?"

"No, Castle, she's almost 30. She builds a castle to have the wedding she dreamed of when she was still in a training bra, and she literally makes a prince to order. I don't know  _what_ her playbook looks like."

"Ok, I get it. You're frustrated," he said little more gently, "and we need to find her regardless. So we focus on that."

"Wedding planner did say they worked well together," Beckett admitted with a sigh, "and jealousy's a pretty weak motive if it was a business arrangement."

Castle smiled. She envied him his ability to bounce back so quickly.

"So you'll bring Reed back in, and  _I_  can play rich, impulsive collector," he sounded a little too excited by the prospect. "Too bad you can't come with me. You could be my pretty, pretty princess who just has to have her authentic gewgaws."

"Gewgaws? Is that even a word?"

"Thirteenth century, but brought into common English usage by Samuel Richardson, author of  _Pamela,_ the first example of that little medium we call . . . the novel," Castle replied with a flourish.

Beckett rolled her eyes and picked up the pace, "I know how you love to roleplay, Castle, but we'll get a warrant for the auction records."

"What? That'll take forever! And they'll get all snooty and 'I'm sorry, Detective, we  _must_  protect the confidentiality of our clientele'," he was practically jogging now.

"She's a missing person and we've got a pretty good case that we need those records to find her."

"Pretty good?" he sounded offended, ""This is  _exactly_  the kind of thing that calls for millionaire playboy Richard Castle."

"I'm playing it by the book, playboy," she called over her shoulder.

Castle paused a moment and stared after her, confused, as she approached the crosswalk, "Beckett, are you . . . annoyed with me?"

"More than usual?" she certainly looked annoyed at having to wait for the traffic light to change.

"Kate," he stepped up next to her, "don't do that. If I pissed you off, tell me how."

Beckett looked off into the distance, "I'm not  _annoyed_  . . . . I've got Gates crawling up my ass and I don't want . . ."

"You don't want what?" he stiffened.

"Look, Castle," she made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, "I can get the warrant."

"Of course you can get the warrant," he gave her an incredulous look, "but getting the warrant takes time, and there's no reason in the world for me not to dust off my public persona and get a head start."

"I don't want your  _persona_ screwing around with my case,Castle!" she practically shouted as she strode out into the intersection.

Castle gaped a moment then lunged and caught her arm. She looked him dead in the eye and in that moment he was certain that if the street weren't crowded and her shield weren't visible on her belt, she'd have decked him.  _Fair enough_ , he thought. He looked around and set off, her arm still in his grasp, for the nearest decently isolated spot.

It turned out to be a seedy convenience store. Castle nodded to the bored cashier and hauled Beckett to the frozen foods at the back corner of the store.

"What are you doing, Castle?" she hissed, finally pulling her arm free.

"Is this about . . ." he glanced around. There were maybe 3 other shoppers total, but he still wasn't about to push his luck any further, "what happened yesterday?"

"Oh, get over yourself," she snapped.

"I'm serious, Kate," he looked her in the eye. "You're suddenly uncomfortable with me doing the kind of thing I've done a dozen times on a dozen cases, and as far as I know only one thing has changed."

"You want to talk about this now? By the frozen peas!"

"Yes, I do," he was feeling more ridiculous by the second, but refused to give in to his embarrassment. Or hers, "because this is important and I'm not going to let the misunderstandings pile up until one of us leaves town. Not this time."

Beckett blinked and flinched back, "No one's . . . no one's leaving, Castle."

"Good," he touched her shoulder hesitantly, then, feeling bolder for no apparent reason, he brushed a lock of hair off her cheek and eased it behind her ear, "good. So tell me what's up."

"Nothing," she shook her head, "nothing. I'm . . . you're right. You've done this a dozen times before. And it makes sense for you to get a head start, like you said."

"Ok, good," he smiled, "but I'm not just trying to get my way here. Tell me what's making you uncomfortable."

"I just don't want people to see that's something's going on between us and think you're . . . doing me favors," she rolled her eyes at her own vague unease.

Castle nodded, "I get that. Believe me, I think this case, more than ever, has opened my eyes to the bullshit that you shouldn't have to deal with to do your job. And I know that with Gates around, I contribute to that more than I'd like, but . . ." this time, he was the one to back away a step before continuing, "isn't it possible that you're overcompensating?"

She snorted, "Who, me? Like I  _ever_  do that!"

"It really is no different from the kind of thing I've done before. Most of the time, I know I'm just spit-balling, but this,  _this_ is something real I can do to make your job easier. And I've always wanted to do that," he grinned, "whether it seems that way to you or not."

"Ok, yes. It's a good idea for you to work that angle. And I'm ok with it."

"I'm glad," he said softly.

"But . . . Castle," she touched his hand and dropped her eyes, "things could get complicated."

"With the two of us? I think that's pretty much guaranteed," he snagged her fingers with his and squeezed, "So we keep talking. Keep figuring out the boundaries. I know I can be . . . too eager to please, and I'll work on it. But I wish you wouldn't borrow trouble."

"Borrow trouble," Beckett laughed, "ok, I'll work on that. But what if it came down to choosing whether to work together or . . ."

"I'd choose you," he said immediately, "I really hope that it doesn't come to it, because that would suck. I love working with you. It's exhilarating and inspiring and meaningful. But I absolutely, without a doubt, would choose being with you."

"Oh," she said in a small voice.

"And . . . that's me being overeager again, isn't it?" he mumbled.

"No. I'm glad. And I hope," she found his eyes, "I  _really_ hope that it doesn't come to that either. But I'm glad."

Castle knew what Lanie would have to say about the smile that was slowly taking over his face, but he really didn't care, "Good. Ok, let me buy you a drumstick to compensate this good shopkeeper for providing a venue for this awkward heart-to-heart."

"Oooh, bomb pop," she said. Her phone rang and she dug it out of her pocket, "Hey Ryan, I'm like 3 minutes from the precinct, but what've you got?"

" _Couple things that can wait 'til you get here and one that can't_."

"Well, don't keep me hanging," she followed Castle to the front register. Castle raised his eyebrows and she shrugged.

" _Something might've popped on Grayson's fingerprints_."

"Fingerprints? I thought that was a total dead end. What do you mean, 'might've'?" she shook her head at Castle, who was hovering too close.

" _It's . . . a little complicated,"_ Ryan's hesitation was really starting to grate,  _"the match is from the juvenile system and it's possible that they should have been flushed when he turned 21. But for some reason they weren't."_

Beckett frowned, "What was he printed for?"

" _Public lewdness_   _when he was 17._ "

"Let me guess. In a rest room?" she asked. Castle pretended to be occupied with paying for the ice cream, but she could see him putting the pieces together.

" _Got it in one, boss."_

"Ok, so if he didn't picked up for something between the ages of 18 and 21, why wasn't his record expunged?"

" _Seems like it just fell through the cracks. Prints were never forwarded to central, but they were still in the juvenile system."_

"Ugh, sounds like a headache for legal, but not for us. So what's the name?" she smiled and took the bomb pop from Castle as she followed him out of the store.

" _Charles 'Chase' Grace, III. Only bits and pieces on him so far, but Esposito thinks he might be connected to that crazy guy in that mansion up in Tarrytown from like a year ago."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, if only Castle and Beckett would have themselves, like, surgically grafted to one another, it'd be soooo easy to write. Poor Castle kind of gets pwned by Lanie and Beckett in rapid succession here, but Beckett!Smooches have our wordsmith a little off his game. Worth the price of admission, I'm sure. 


	13. Chapter 13

 

* * *

 

"Mother, it's 90 degrees. Don't you think the  _chaperon_  is overkill," Castle tossed his keys from hand to hand.

"The gable hood, then, you think?" Martha looked anxiously at the fabric in each hand.

"I think we need to  _go,_ " he groaned.

"The appointment isn't for more than an hour," she turned her chin this way and that in the mirror, "and I must  _look_  the character to  _be_  the character."

"Even if you die of heatstroke?"

"You may have a point," Martha's hands stilled in the act of placing the stiff veil on her head. She dropped it on the table and spread the folds of her tunic, "Is this too heavy, do you think?"

Castle dropped his head on the back of the couch with a thump. The tender spot at the base of his skull throbbed. The memory of Beckett teasing him about his office chair came flooding back. He smiled in spite of the pain. Had he really been  _that_  miserable just yesterday morning?

"What's that for?" she whirled away from the mirror to face him.

"What?"

"That smile," Martha sailed over to the couch and took his hand, " _that_  smile! It's been weeks! Months! Darling you must tell me  _all!_ "

_What the hell? First Lanie, now Mother?_

His smile took a distinct turn toward a deer-in-headlights expression, "Uh . . . I'm writing again!"

"Richard! That's  _wonderful!_  What broke the dam?"

"Uh . . . just, you know, got some sleep," he made a vague gesture, hoping he'd dodged the bullet.

"Kiddo," she looked at him skeptically, "that is not the smile of a good night's sleep and wholesome living."

"No, really. Sleep, then nose to the grindstone. You know how it goes sometimes," he finished lamely.

"Yes, I know how it goes  _all_ the time with you," Martha tapped her own chest. "You are your mother's son, though it may pain you to admit it. It's all about the  _crisis_ withyour writing."

"There's no crisis, Mother," he shifted uncomfortably. "Can we go, please?"

"No." It was a statement, not an answer to his question. She examined his face carefully, "There's no crisis anymore. Which means something's been resolved. Some . . . obstacle has been removed. Oh, darling, you're not on the Gina merry-go-round again?"

"What? No! She's ready to rip my throat out. What makes you think . . . ." he broke off at his mother's pitying look. "Fine, so there's a pattern there, but no. I am not on  _anything_ of Gina's."

Martha shifted tactics, "That's fine, dear. Don't tell me. I will relish the chance to put myself in your shoes and solve the mystery!"

"There's no mystery," he said irritably.

"Mmmm," she returned to the mirror, "I think you're right about the headgear. I should look . . . unfinished. After all, I am a woman in search of the perfect authentic pieces for my medieval drama, am I not?"

"Yes!" Castle bounced up from the couch, "Exactly! So can we go?"

"That's costuming taken care of," she leaned into the mirror, "now, let's talk goals, motivation, backstory."

"Mother, it's snooping," he fell back on to the couch with a sigh. "You're a method snooper."

"So I am," Martha caught his eye in the mirror and smiled. "But what, specifically, are we after? Give me my marks, my boy, and I will hit them!"

"Ok!" he rubbed his palms together, "We know that Audra Winnert was a part of various communities of collectors, but not under her own name. She started out strictly online. That's probably where she was most visible."

"Hmmm, online. I can work with that. I'm thinking Billie Burke in  _The Man Who Came to Dinner,_ " she gave an experimental flutter. "Play it older, a little daffy. Get the young people to explain the ins and outs of these new-fangled things. "

"Play, yes," Castle cleared his throat, "that's good, actually. If you can get them talking about virtual business, how auctions have changed, it might bring up some of the bigger players."

"And Audra Winnert was a  _big_  player. Any name they drop  _could_ be a name she'd use now. Got it. What else?"

"There's a particular auction we're interested in . . . " he hesitated as he tried to decide what information his mother really needed to know to get the job done.

"Ah yes! Where our lovebirds met, supposedly. What's the name of that terrible man's monstrosity," Martha put a hand to her forehead, "Winterfield!"

"Terrible man?"

"Charles Grace. That's it. Hateful person. Just hateful."

"Charles Grace, Junior, actually. You knew him?" Castle tried not to look too eager. The bombshell about Philip Grayson's real identity was something Beckett wanted to play very close to the vest for the moment.

"Not personally, no, but he made a fair amount of trouble for a theater company I was working with back in . . . oh, I think it was '95?"

"I thought he was practically a shut in?" he frowned. "What was his problem with a small-time theater company?"

"I graciously pass over the insinuation that any project in which I am involved is small time," Martha sniffed. "Anyway, it was the production, not the company. Oh, it  _was_  '95—we were doing  _As Is._ "

"That's . . . oh, who's the playwright . . . set during the beginning of the AIDS crisis, right?"

"William Hoffman," Martha nodded, "1995 was the 10th anniversary of the play. The production was a benefit for a hospice."

"Right, I remember the benefit, but not much about the play."

"Well, given the subject matter, the roles for women were small, but meaty," her eyes got that far-away look. "Still, I was proud to be a part of it, and I daresay I made the most of that hospice worker role."

Castle looked at his mother expectantly. "So what happened?"

"Right!" she shook herself, "Well, it turned out that Charles Grace was part owner of the performance space, and he was quite the homophobe."

"Really?" his mind latched on to the information and put it together with the near-certain fact that Philip Grayson—Charles Grace III—was gay. "What did he do?"

"The odious creature had the show thrown out of the space," he her lip curled in disgust, "and he rallied the most  _vile_  protestors. Even those . . . oh, what do they call themselves . . . conversion therapy groups . . . they were  _everywhere_."

"That can't have made for a pleasant . . . " Castle suddenly realized he was speaking aloud. It wouldn't do to let his mother know he was something back. ( _About the case or anything else_ ) ". . . experience. For you and your theater company."

"Actually, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise," Martha laughed, "Another space took us in, we got  _loads_  of publicity. Sold out every performance."

"Do you have anything in your scrapbooks on Grace? Or those protestors?"

"Darling, you know I save everything," she watched him curiously, "but why?"

"I want to know how he fits into these collectors' communities that Audra Winnert was a part of," he chose his words carefully, all too aware that he'd he'd turned into an accidental over-sharer in the last 24 hours. "He was so far out of the public eye, anything we can find on him might give us a better picture."

"Hmmm," Martha looked at her watch, "We still have a bit of time,  _despite_  your grousing earlier. Give me a moment."

"Thank you, mother!" Castle called after her. His phone buzzed and Ryan's picture popped up, "Ryan, what's up?"

" _You tell me, Castle_ ," Ryan sounded confused and a little annoyed,  _"Beckett asked me to call you. What's up with that?"_

"I . . . don't know?" he frowned. "Didn't she tell you why she wanted you to call me?"

" _She wants you to call Clayton Winnert. Give him the news about his daughter calling you."_

"Didn't the Captain do that?"

" _Oh, she did_.  _But she_ didn't  _tell him that Audra's with someone."_

"She . . . Gates . . . withheld information from Clayton Winnert?" Castle was feeling more lost by the second. "On purpose?"

" _Beckett talked her into it,_ "Ryan's tone implied there was quite a story there.

"Ok . . . why?"

" _Told Gates that Winnert doesn't trust her or any of us, but he_ does  _trust you and we should be working that angle."_

"And if  _I_ call him and drop new information, that reinforces the idea that he can trust me. That it's us versus the NYPD," he smiled. "How the  _hell_ did Beckett get Gates to agree to that?"

" _She was totally in the Captain's face about it."_

Castle was trying to focus on the conversation, but his mind kept running back to do a happy dance around the knowledge that Beckett had gone to bat for him—seriously gone to bat for him, apparently—with Gates.

" _Castle? You still there?"_

 _Oops_.

"Sorry, Kevin. I thought I heard my mother calling from upstairs. Did she . . . did Beckett say . . . anything else?" he winced as a sudden image of Lanie smirking flashed before his eyes.

" _Yeah,"_ Ryan sounded like he might be smirking himself,  _"she said 'tell him it'll make my job easier'."_

"Got it," there was no way in hell Ryan couldn't hear him smiling.

" _Yeah . . . ok."_

"Something else?" Castle crossed his fingers.

" _Do_ you  _know why Beckett's acting so weird?"_

"W . . . weird?" he stammered. "Weird how? I haven't, you know, really . . . noticed."

" _Weird like asking me to call you instead of calling herself._ "

"Well, you know . . . Gates. She's just . . . we're just . . . Beckett and me, I mean . . . we're just trying to stay on her good side," he knocked the phone against his forehead.  _What is_ wrong  _with me?_

" _Yeah,"_ Ryan sounded about 180 degrees from convinced.

Martha appeared on the landing with an album in her arms, "Ok, Ryan, I've gotta go. My mother might have something interesting, and then we have an appointment with an auction house. Tell Beckett I'll make that call and can you . . . just tell her I live to serve."

" _Sure,"_ Ryan paused as though he were going to say something more, then thought better of it and hung up.

"Here we are, darling," she plumped the album on the coffee table between them.

"Everything old is new again," Castle pointed to a grainy photo of a snarling protestor with a sign reading "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" sign. The few articles he scanned all ran on the same theme: Charles Grace poured money into the protest and leaned on various cronies and agencies in an attempt to shut down the production.

"Ah, this is the group I was thinking of," Martha's finger landed on a short column accompanied by a picture of a nondescript man in his 60s or 70s. Behind him, a friendlier looking, if equally creepy, band of protestors held signs with single-word slogans like "Hope" and "Cure."

"I remember him!" Castle exclaimed, "Raymond Sanders. He was a psychoanalyst. I was going to base a character on him in  _One Bullet, One Heart_ , but he creeped me out too much."

"He creeped  _you_ out?" she chuckled, "That, my dear, is saying something."

"He was the real force behind Reparative Therapy," he shook his head. "He came under serious fire from the medical community, but he just kept on. Getting press, money from people like Charles Grace. Twenty years after a sea change in psychiatry, he turned around and gave the idea that gay people needed to be cured a scientific face."

"Wait, I remember this now. Wasn't he involved with that scandal—that private mental hospital the state eventually shut down?"

"That's right," Castle flipped another page, but the article on Sanders was the last piece on the protests, "I'd forgotten about that. They were using all kinds of horrible old school treatments, promising families they could fix just about anything."

"For the right price," Martha scoffed. "But Richard, darling, how does any of this help? So Charles Grace was a bigot with scurrilous friends in high places, so what?"

"I'm not ready to say yet, but I've got a pretty good idea. Or bad idea, really," he said absently as he happened to glance at his watch, "Shoot, we need to get going."

"Ah yes, our appointment," she stood. "But don't you have something to do for Beckett first?"

"Yes, right!" Castle pushed off the couch, phone in hand. He looked undecided, "We're really going to be late, if we don't leave right now . . ."

"Oh, make your call," she said with a wave of her hand, "The kind of clients that auction house has? They  _expect_  them to be late. Besides, this a delicate time . . ."

"Delicate?" he asked as he scrolled through his recent calls to find Clayton Winnert's number, "How do you mean?"

"Well," Martha took a last appraising look in the mirror, "now that you and Kate have  _finally_  taken the next step, you want to keep her happy, don't you?"

 

* * *

 

Esposito had been decidedly twitchy ever since he and Beckett arrived back in Central Park.

"The horses aren't even here any more, Espo," Beckett gave him a sidelong glance.

"Not just the horses, Beckett," Esposito glared across the clearing at the castle, "this whole case just bugs me. Give me a nice down and dirty drug deal gone wrong any day. Crazy rich people, no thanks."

Beckett's quiet laughter broke off as they reached the beginning of the paved walk way. She touched Esposito's wrist briefly and threw a significant glance toward the castle's arched entrance. Andrew Reed stood in the shadow of the looming stone wall, staring up at the recessed portcullis.

"Mr. Reed," Beckett called as she and Esposito crossed the clearing to meet him, "thank you for talking with us again. Is this a bad time?"

Reed blinked as though he didn't recognize them. The day before, he'd been an attractive, neatly groomed man who projected an air of quiet competence. Now, his jaw was patchy with stubble, his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and he seemed to have aged visibly. Beckett recognized the signs: The shock had worn off and grief had set in.

"Detectives," he said finally, "no, it's not a bad time. I was just finishing up. Thank you for meeting me here. My stables are an hour in the other direction and I . . . I have some things there I should take care of."

"It's no problem, like Detective Beckett says, we appreciate your time," Esposito looked a bit guilty.

"Do you mind if we don't do this . . . here?" Reed gestured vaguely at the portcullis, "there are some benches inside."

"I wouldn't mind getting out of the sun," Beckett stepped through the archway and followed him to a pair of smooth stone benches jutting from the back wall.  _Farthest point possible from Philip Grayson's murder,_  she thought as she settled next to Esposito on one bench and Reed dropped on to the other across from them.

"Mr. Reed, the reason we wanted to talk to you is that some things have come to light about Philip Grayson, and since you seem to be one of the few people who knew him, we wanted your take," Beckett kept her voice low enough to keep the conversation private, even though construction workers and various people attached to Bridget Moran were dismantling the space around them.

"Things?" Reed looked resigned.

"Things like Philip Grayson wasn't his real name," Esposito had dialed his typical hard ass tone back a notch or two. Beckett gave him a brief nod of gratitude.

"You don't seem surprised."

"There were a lot of things I didn't know about Philip," Reed shook his head and gave a weak smile. "There were a lot of things  _Philip_  didn't know about Philip."

"What did you know about him?" Esposito asked.

"That someone worked hard to make him feel like he shouldn't be who he was. And that he was kind and funny and hopeful in spite of that. He deserved better."

"Better than what, Mr. Reed?" Beckett leaned forward, "Better than a business arrangement disguised as a marriage?"

Reed let out a shaky laugh, "I meant better than whatever happened to him in his childhood. Family. But, yes, I suppose . . . I suppose I thought he deserved better than that, too."

"So Grayson and Audra Winnert were open about their relationship?" Esposito and Beckett exchanged perplexed looks.

"No, most people bought the fairytale couple. You had to pay attention to tell. You had to know him," Reed suddenly looked Beckett in the eye, "You know, don't you?"

"We know that you and Mr. Grayson were close," Beckett kept her eyes on his, "and that you knew him better than anyone."

"Not better than Audra. No one knew him better than Audra," Reed said quietly. "They were close. They weren't in love, but they were close."

Beckett thought she detected a trace of . . . not bitterness . . . envy maybe? She felt like things were getting less clear by the second, "Mr. Reed, Philip Grayson wasn't just an alias. It seems to have been a whole identity—a role he was playing. Do you know anything about that?"

"Not really," Reed shrugged helplessly, "I know it must seem like I'm talking in circles. Philip . . .  _implied_  things. He never came out and said . . . anything about anything."

"Can you give us an example?" Esposito kept his tone even, but Beckett could sense his frustration. She shared it, but something about the Andrew Reed's naked grief made her tamp it down.

"Look, there's no sense in tip-toeing around this," Reed turned his palms up. "I was in love with him. And he . . . had feelings for me that he was uncomfortable with. But recently . . . just before he . . . "

"You had sex," Beckett said quietly. "We found a mark on his collar bone . . ."

"It was only once," Reed's eyes filled with tears, "Two nights before he was killed. And then the night . . . we fought. He picked a fight with me and I left."

"What did you fight about?" Esposito's voice grew harder, though still a tick or two below his usual attitude.

"I don't even know!" Reed laughed as he swiped at his eyes. "He was . . . agitated. Anxious. Like he couldn't sit still. And the fight—the things he was saying—they were like nonsense."

"How do you mean?" Beckett frowned.

"That night started off . . . not like usual. I was nervous. I didn't know if he would bolt or deny that anything had happened. He wasn't . . . to say he was not ok with the way he felt is a huge understatement," a soft smile crept over his face. "But he didn't run. I mean, we didn't talk about it. There were people everywhere. But the way he smiled at me . . . kept finding excuses to be close . . . he wasn't running."

"You said you fought, though," Esposito prompted. "What happened?"

"I honestly don't know," Reed shook his head, "We'd been working with Brom, and I had to go deal with some fiasco of Bridget's. I was gone for maybe 20 minutes. And when I came back he was acting like he was furious at me. Said I was working him too hard, and I told him that I thought he was right. He should take a night off. And he did a 180 and said I was holding him back, not letting him work independently."

"Do you think," Beckett groped for a tactful way to phrase the question, "that maybe he  _was_ having second thoughts about the change in your relationship and it just . . . hit him?"

"No," there wasn't a hint of doubt on his face, "he . . . the fight wasn't public. He seemed like he was trying to keep it quiet. If it was about  _us_ , he wouldn't have been so . . . all over the map with such weird, impersonal complaints. I know I probably sound like some sad, desperate case, but I really felt like he was trying to tell me the fight wasn't real. But he wouldn't let up. So I finally left."

Esposito shot Beckett a look. It  _did_ sound a little desperate, "Did he give any indication that something might have happened while you were off dealing with your emergency? Anything that might explain the change in his mood?"

Reed started to shake his head, then froze, "Wait. I can't believe I didn't remember this until now. He got a call. He had his cell phone in his hand and he was just hanging up when I got back."

"We didn't find a cell phone," Esposito sat up.

"I don't know what to say. He had one. Pretty much only Audra ever called him on it."

"Mr. Reed, you left the park that night around 7:30?" Beckett asked.

"Yeah," he nodded, "After . . . after we fought, I took care of a few things and went back to my stables."

"What time would that phone call have been?"

Reed thought a moment, "The fight went on a while. I didn't want to give up. It was probably 6:15?"

"Espo?"

"It's in the window of calls Barnes made to the park."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the longer than usual interval before posting. Semester has started back up and I'm back to banishing anthropological ignorance in undergraduates. 
> 
> This chapter turned out to be 2 long scenes (not too long, I hope). I'm cribbing from real life again: I worked on a production of As Is in college, and although that was uneventful (well, not uneventful, there was an adventure with a carpet tube and the Dan Ryan Expressway, as well as a very strange series of events obtaining 400 condoms, but I digress), the group I worked with did end up having trouble with protestors for a production of Christopher Durang's Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You. Fun fact: If you're a Supernatural fan, Misha Collins (Castiel on Supernatural) was in it. He wore my bathrobe, and I ended up playing opposite him at the last minute (I was understudying and the lead dropped like 48 hours before opening). 
> 
> Annnyway, enough of my raconteur lifestyle. Thank you, sincerely, for sticking with the story, following, favoring, and especially reviewing. 


	14. Chapter 14

 

* * *

After the auction house's low, elegant lighting and the hush born of thick carpets and rich, dark wood, the glare and bustle of the New York afternoon were jarring.

"I think that went splendidly," Martha beamed as they moved away from the front door of Fenton & Holmes, Auctioneers, at speed.

"Splendidly? Mother, she threw us out," Castle put a hand to her back and steered her around a knot of smokers.

"Don't be silly, darling. No one as painfully well bred as Maris Holmes throws anyone out of her establishment. She  _invited_ us to be finished with our business."

"I stand corrected," he said drily, "and what does someone so painfully well bred as yourself call throwing her only son under the bus?"

"Kiddo, the situation was dire and your story was  _not_  selling," she patted his cheek as they waited for the light to change, "I had to improvise."

"Is it improvisation if you're telling some horribly— _horribly—_ warped version of the truth?"

"Truth is the heart of all acting, improvisation especially," Martha took his arm.

"You know," suddenly paranoid, Castle looked at the crowd around them as they made their way across the street. He lowered his head to whisper in his mother's ear, "you  _know_  that Beckett will kill you when she finds out that you told some stranger that she's my girlfriend and I was breaking the law to impress her."

She gave a tinkling laugh, "Point the first: I did not call Kate your girlfriend."

Castle's head swiveled toward her, "Do you really think 'lady friend' will save you?"

"Point the second," she went on placidly, "I did not name names."

"Oh, yes, quite the mystery, given that Maris Holmes gushed about being a fan of the Nikki Heat books," he hissed. "Very subtle. Nice wink, by the way—would you say you were 'indicating' there, Mother?"

"Point the third:  _You_ , my dear, were the one who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. At that point, all I could do was damage control."

"Would it have killed you to give me  _some_  indication that the cookie jar was about to bite my hand off?"

"Now, Richard, that's  _really_  unfair," she scowled at him. "Acting is a partnership. You have to  _listen_ , and  _respond_ to those you're sharing the stage with."

"Grace Kelly's wedding ring? Really?" Castle shook his head in disbelief, "Completely out of context, I was supposed to pick up on that while trying to navigate through an endless number of—frankly,  _very_  disorganized—auction records?"

"There is no greater indictment of my parenting skills than my only son's failure to recognize a timely  _Rear Window_  reference."

He opened his mouth and shut it again immediately, "No, there's too much. I'm not touching that."

"Smart boy. Sometimes," Martha lifted her chin, "So aren't you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"I know that look," she slapped his arm, "you found  _something_. Now give."

As though on cue,  _Papa Don't Preach_  sounded from the inside pocket of Castle's jacket, "Clayton Winnert  _finally_  calling me back! Rick Castle."

" _Mr. Castle,_ " a smooth female voice came over the line, " _Please hold for Clayton Winnert_."

"Mother, I have to take this," he raised his voice over her protests, "Listen, please!"

He tore yet another sheet out of his moleskine and scrawled a name:  _Carter Liddell._  Underneath he wrote  _Zip code:_ _10965._

"Call Beckett," he shoved the paper into her hand, "tell her I'm sorry it's not more, and I'm still working on it."

Castle waved his free arm madly. Providence, for once, was kind. A cab appeared almost instantaneously.

"Oh, and tell her about the call," he pointed to the phone.

He opened the door of the cab to hand her in. At the last second, he was seized by a terrible vision of Martha initiating girl talk with Beckett. He took his mother by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes, "Do not— _do_ _not,_  under pain of exile—say  _a word_ about . . . that other thing that you think you know."

" _Richard_ , this is . . ."

With an apologetic kiss on the cheek, he practically shoved her into the cab, "Gotta take this! See you back at the loft, Mother!"

* * *

"Ryan, please tell me you have something on Barnes," Beckett called out as she and Esposito stepped out of the elevator.

"Still a few more surveillance feeds to go through, but I think it's a bust," Ryan pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, "last thing we have is Edith Carter and Barnes both passing a camera a block and a half from your apartment."

"Damn it," Beckett fell into her desk chair.

"If you still lived in the East Village," Esposito shrugged, "no problem. Department's got eyes everywhere."

"I know! What was I thinking, getting my apartment blown up?"

"Just sayin'," Esposito shook his head, "Tribeca?"

"You two get anything, or am I the only one working here?" Ryan asked.

"Got a second and third corroboration of Reed's alibi," Esposito clicked through the first two emails in his inbox, "time-stamped security camera footage from his stables if we need it."

Beckett waved a hand in his direction, "Probably don't need to bother. He's not our guy."

"So Castle's  _Brokeback Mountain_ theory was a bust?"

Esposito and Beckett glared at Ryan in tandem.

"What? Cowboys . . ."

"Grow up, Ryan," Esposito shook his head in disgust.

"They were involved," Beckett made a trip the murder board, " _And_ Reed confirms Martha's take on the relationship between Audra Winnert and Philip Grayson. Whatever was or was not going on with them romantically, Reed says they were 'close'."

"Guess Castle's mother is two for two," Ryan said in a low voice as his gaze flicked toward the Captain's office.

"Guess so. Did you get in touch with him?" Beckett would have sworn under oath that her heart rate didn't change a bit as she asked.

"Mmmm," Ryan's attention was on his monitor, "said he'd make the call."

"Anything else?" she clenched her teeth and silently cursed herself for letting the question slip out.

"Yeah," he said faintly, "something weird."

"Something  _weird?_ " Beckett spun toward Ryan's desk and tried to construct a plausible case for throttling her co-worker.

"Whoa," Ryan suddenly looked up to find an apparently enraged Beckett closing in on him, "what is  _that_ about?"

"What?" Beckett stopped short and tried to assume a casual posture leaning on the edge of Esposito's desk.

"Scary Beckett face," Esposito said, shrugging in response to his partner's curious look, "you ok?"

"Fine," she snapped, "I just . . . I'm tired off all this running around and playing phone tag and . . . meeting in the stairwells."

"It's cool, Beckett," Ryan decided on laughing it off as a survival strategy, "we all miss our boyfriend."

"Except the Captain," Esposito added.

Beckett closed her eyes for half a second and took a breath, willing her inner teenager to stand down, "Sorry, guys. Just . . . a long couple of days. What've you got, Ryan?"

"Right. Anyway, check this out," he swiveled his chair back toward the monitor. "Now that we have a real name, I've been trying to see if Charles Grace, III, pops anywhere. Now, mentions of our vic are pretty swamped out by mentions of Daddy, but in this case, that helps us."

"How?" Esposito came around to perch on the edge of Ryan's desk opposite Beckett.

"So, we've got a birth certificate. Few news articles about the family—again, mostly about Daddy. And then a lot of nothing: Never issued a driver's license, no employment history, no credit cards. Until a month ago, Charles Grace, III, puts in a rush application for a passport."

"Why get a passport in his real name after all that time?" Beckett leaned her elbows on Ryan's desk, "He had ID as Philip Grayson."

"No clue, but his first application is rejected on the grounds that Charles Grace is dead, giving us our second double ping on the name."

"But that's Daddy," Esposito nodded.

"Right. And we get lucky with that a second time," Ryan clicked to expand an email attachment. "This is TSA report from 5 days ago. Charles Grace, III, was granted permission to fly without photo identification."

"So he never got the passport?" Esposito asked

"No, he did, but the TSA eager beaver made an issue about the names on the boarding pass not matching exactly—the boarding pass just says Charles Grace, passport specifies Charles Grace, III."

"Ok," Beckett frowned, "other than confirming that he was traveling 5 days ago, how does that help?"

Ryan scrolled down, "Check out why they let him fly without photo ID."

"His fiancée has more money than God?" Esposito snorted.

"No," Beckett chewed her lip as she read the screen, "he had a copy of his birth certificate and confirmed two addresses in publicly available databases. Winterfield until 2002 and some other address in Orangeburg where he's listed as 'C. Grace' from 2006 to 2009. That's something at least."

"Where was he going?"

"Orange County, California, with his lovely bride-to-be." Ryan clicked away from the TSA report and over to a web browser.

The tab popped up an article from one of the more harmless gossip websites. It featured a picture of Audra Winnert and Philip Grayson offering a tense smile to the camera, even as they turned away from it. Beckett remembered skimming past it when research had turned it up. It seemed like just another puff piece about the wedding. The couple was making a trip to a specialist in restoring antique fabrics pick up a silk prayer stole they'd be using in the ceremony.

"That's a lot of trouble to go to for a hankie," Esposito shook his head.

"And why travel under his real name?" Beckett looked over her shoulder at the murder board, "That trip has to be about something more than just another prop."

"Whatever it was about, they took care of it quick. They were on a plane back to New York 6 hours after they landed," Ryan said.

"Ok," Beckett blew out a breath, "Let's get financials on the trip. See if that sheds any light on anything. And that second address that Grace confirmed. See what that turns up."

"Where are you off to?" Esposito asked as he parked himself behind his desk.

"Updating Gates, what else?" she rolled her eyes and took a reluctant step toward the Captain's office.

"Oh, Beckett," Ryan swung his chair around to face her, "Castle said to tell you he lives to serve."

"Ah."

"Told you it was weird."

"Yeah, well, that's Castle," she swallowed a smile and willed herself not to blush.

* * *

Castle ducked into a nearby bar. Most New Yorkers were seeking the afternoon sun, in spite of the oppressive heat. Though the line for the patio spilled on to the sidewalk, the dim interior was all but empty. He slipped into a booth near the back.

"Yes," he replied as he fumbled the phone back to his ear, "I'm still holding for Mr. Winnert."

The waitress, whom he'd taken for another patron in search of some solitude, approached his table. She slapped down a wilted cocktail napkin and waited. He squinted to make out the labels behind the bar as her expression shifted from bored to annoyed, "Single malt?"

She gave him a look that he might have filed under incredulous if she'd cared enough, "Scotch. Whatever you have is fine. Neat."

" _Rick!"_ Clayton Winnert's chummy tone was definitely not growing on Castle,  _"Sorry to keep you waiting."_

"Not a problem, Clayton," his scotch arrived with a thump and no backward glance from the waitress. He took a sip and instantly regretted it, "I assume that Captain Gates has already called you with the news, but I felt like I should speak with you personally."

_"I appreciate that. Tell me, Rick: How did she sound? And what aren't the police telling me?"_

"I wish I had better news. She sounded upset. She's very worried about Edith Carter," Castle didn't miss Winnert's snort of disgust, "and she's afraid."

 _"She should be,"_  his tone was hard.  _"She's a liability now."_

He almost choked his second swallow, and this time it had little to do with the quality of the liquor, "A liability?"

 _"Audra . . . "_  Winnert paused and Castle heard the tell-tale sounds of a decanter being uncorked,  _"has always been a troubled young woman. There are things about her past—our family's past—that I've worked damned hard to keep private. But somewhere along the way, my daughter started seeing me as the enemy."_

"I was only able to talk with her briefly," Castle chose his words carefully, "but I saw right away that she's very . . . imaginative. A born storyteller."

 _"Well, you would know!"_  Winnert gave a hearty laugh,  _"I tell you, Rick. When I heard you were killing off Derrick Storm for some Nancy Drew shit, I had my doubts. But those lady detective books, they're not bad. Not bad at all."_

"Well, thank you," Castle's smile was so tight, he thought his face might crack, "it's certainly an interesting challenge to get inside a woman's mind. I'd like to think that would make me more helpful with this . . . situation. Maybe if I can get inside Audra's mind, I can figure out where she is and whom she's with."

 _"With?"_  he barked.  _"What makes you think she's with someone?"_

"Well . . . she used the word 'us.' In fact, the last thing she said was ' _We're_  not safe',"

Castle kept his tone neutral, but he was celebrating on the inside. The news that Audra was not alone had clearly caught Winnert off guard, "I'm surprised Captain Gates didn't mention that."

 _"This is_ exactly  _why I need you on the inside, Rick. Fuckers are trying to control me, tie my hands."_

"I understand the need to be cautious with the public, but to keep that from you . . ." he hoped he sounded sympathetic, but he suspected Martha would have some notes, "well, I'm happy to do what I can to keep you in the loop."

" _Glad to have you on my side, Rick."_

Castle decided to take a bit of a gamble, "To be honest with you, Clayton. I'm . . . not the most popular person at the 12th right now. Gates hasn't completely banished me . . ."

" _She knows better than to piss me off too much,"_ he chuckled.

"That's certainly part of it," Castle answered. "She knows that you trust me. And Audra seems to as well. But she's sort of . . . ordered me off premises, which limits how useful I can be to you."

Winnert let loose a stream of invective. Castle held the phone away from his ear, staring forlornly into his bad scotch. Suddenly, Winnert's four-letter words resolved back into actual sentences. Alarming sentences,  _"I'll make a call. I will_ demand _that you have access to everything they've got and you sit in on every meeting. When you can't be there, one of my people will be."_

"No!" Castle's sudden shout drew a look from the waitress, who was flipping through a magazine at the bar, "I mean . . . I'm not sure that's the right . . . tactic."

Between his mother and Lanie, chances were that he would die by Beckett's hand before the day was out. He certainly didn't need Clayton Winnert sealing the deal.

Winnert grumbled,  _"Well. You know how they operate down there. What do you suggest?"_

"If there were something that the police didn't know that I could offer. Something your people have found," he forced himself to swallow the rest of the scotch in attempt to sound casual, "maybe something you held back from Detective Beckett?"

" _Ok, Rick. Doubt this'll go anywhere anyway, so yeah . . . throw 'em a bone."_

Castle let out a breath silently, "Anything I can use to get back in the room."

" _Audra was pretty damned proud of herself for pulling things over on me,"_ above the sound of ice tinkling into a rocks glass, Castle would have sworn he could hear Winnert grinding his teeth,  _"Grayson, the wedding, that fucking article . . . that whole train wreck was rolling almost before I knew it."_

"Audra mentioned that she'd managed to keep most of her . . . plans . . . under wraps," the waitress was looking pointedly at his empty glass and Castle silently willed Winnert to hurry up before he had to subject himself to something else undrinkable.

" _I'll be damned if I know where and when she learned all that shit, given . . . well, never mind that. I've had one of my people—some kind of tech genius—on her for months,"_ for the first time, a note of grudging pride crept into Winnert's voice.  _"She's made him earn his keep, that's for damned sure."_

"But he's found something?" Castle knew he sounded too eager. He could only hope Winnert's ego would interpret it as a natural desire to suck up to him.

" _Some kind of electronic datebook. Not the one the house staff had. In some kind of code. There's not much in there my guy's been able to decipher yet, other than a regular appointment with some shrink in Orangeburg."_

* * *

Beckett eased the Captain's door closed behind her. She'd managed to highlight Castle's contributions and minimize mention of the man himself. She felt something like a pang of guilt, but honestly, his name made the vein in the Captain's neck throb. Beckett had no comment on what her partner's name was doing to her lately.

The strategy seemed to have worked: Gates had been curiously subdued. Now Beckett had the paranoid idea that it was best to quickly and quietly achieve minimum safe distance.

The buzzing of her phone drew a muffled—well, she refused to call it a shriek—from her just as the door's latch caught.

"Beckett."

 _"Kate, dear! I'm so glad I caught you!"_  Martha's voice dropped to a dramatic stage whisper,  _"Is it safe to talk?"_

Beckett swallowed a sharp retort. The realization that she'd been whispering herself irritated her, but that wasn't Martha's fault, "Yes, Martha. Sorry, things are tense around here. I guess I'm a little too used to walking on eggshells."

 _"Yes, you poor darling,"_  she tutted,  _"from what Richard says this case has you both running all over creation."_

"Curiouser and curiouser," Beckett admitted as she made her way to her desk, "thank you, by the way, for your help. Your . . . insights . . . took us in some new directions."

_"So I was right! I knew it!"_

"I can't really discuss specifics . . ."

_"Of course, of course. I know from Richard that there are . . . all sorts of things we simply can't discuss."_

Something in Martha's arch tone snagged Beckett's attention. She studied the multi-page to-do list on her desk blotter and added  _Kill Castle_  at the very bottom, "I appreciate your discretion, Martha. Was there something else?"

" _Oh, yes!"_ she laughed,  _"Sorry, I_ do  _get caught up. What can I say? I love the noir life."_

"Life?" she tried to force a smile into her tone, "Castle's not getting you into trouble, is he?"

" _Not at all. It is_ I  _who have been getting_ him  _out of trouble."_

 _He was with his_ mother.  _How bad can it be?_ Beckett pretended she hadn't asked herself that question, "Trouble?"

" _Oh, just a little thing, really. Richard's especially eager to remain in your good graces just now, of course."_

She circled  _Kill Castle_  and drew an arrow bumping it a number of items up.

"Beckett!" Esposito called across the bullpen.

To the detective's confusion, Beckett mouthed  _Thank You_  at him, "Martha, I'm sorry to cut you off but I have something else coming in."

"Un mille pardons,"Martha said sheepishly, " _A name: Carter Liddell . . ."_

"Yes!" Beckett slapped the desk, "Edith Carter, and Liddell was her mother's maiden name. That  _has_ to be her. Anything else?"

" _A zip code:_ _10965."_

Beckett scrawled the numbers on to her note pad. As an after thought, she scribbled out the circle and arrow around  _Kill Castle_ , "Thank you, Martha. And don't . . . don't let Castle get too carried away, ok?"

" _His safe keeping is my sacred charge, dear."_

"Sorry, Espo. What've you got?" she crossed the floor to stand beside his desk.

"Only one likely financial hit for the time Audra Winnert was in Orange County," Esposito smirked, then immediately thought better of it. He tried to cover with a cough. "Credit card charge for a car service from the airport to the Old Orange County Courthouse."

"Courthouse?" Ryan walked into the bullpen with two fresh cups of coffee.

Beckett intercepted one before he could set it on his partner's desk. She ignored Esposito's indignant huff, "What were they doing at a courthouse?"

"That location only has two services: Passports . . ."

"Which we know they both already had . . ." Ryan sipped the other coffee.

"The other service, Javi?" Beckett looked eager.

"Marriage services. Under confidential license."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the longer delay than I'd like. All my classes are now in session, so precious little time to write.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

 

  
  


* * *

Castle kicked the loft door shut behind him and made straight for his office. He spent the last of his patience tugging the laptop free from the shoulder bag and reconnecting the power supply. As he turned the bag upside down entirely, an array of mismatched paper and cocktail napkins rained down on the desk.

He scooped them into a pile and began turning them right side up with one hand while the other went through the well-practiced motions of speed-dialing Beckett's cell.  _Notepad,_ he thought absently as he slid the scraps around, trying for some semblance of order. _Have to get these down. . . ._ He managed to halt his thumb half a second before it completed the call.

Calling Beckett directly was a last-resort measure at the moment. Whining that she'd kept the legal pad with all his notes probably didn't qualify.  _Even if she_ does _have the murder board_.  _Could text_   _Ryan and ask him to scan it . . ._ Castle pushed the thought away as he recalled Ryan's suspicious tone during their last conversation. He locked the phone with an irritated grunt and reached for a fresh legal pad.

Ideas came faster than his pen could get them on to the page. Flashes of insight and bits of information shaped themselves into the kind of narrative Beckett would ruthlessly pick apart. He crumpled each scrap as he finished transcribing it and tossed in the general direction of the trash, only allowing himself a brief celebration as the last of the cocktail napkins he'd wrestled away from the sullen waitress arced high and landed in the exact center of the basket.

"Nothing but net!" He crowed and dropped back into his chair. He carefully tore off several well-filled pages and laid them side by side on the desk. Taking up the pen again, he wrote  _DADDY ISSUES_ across the top of a fresh page. His hand stilled suddenly and he frowned at the page. He tore it off with more force than strictly necessary and ripped it to bits.

_Came by your issues honestly, didn't you, Chase?_

Castle gathered the scraps of paper into a tight fist and thrust them into the trash can. He turned back to the pad and wrote  _CONTROLLING FATHERS_ instead. His pen stalled again as his thoughts strayed to Alexis.

A few hours of sleep and 50-plus pages ( _To say nothing of Beckett lips, Beckett skin, Beckett sleepy voice . . . but that way lies madness . . ._ ) had done wonders for Castle's outlook on life. But he'd be lying if he said his thoughts didn't go completely black at the thought of his daughter holed up in a seedy ( _Well, ok, the Plaza's hardly "seedy" . . ._ ) hotel with that unappreciative, unworthy bag of hormones. But wasn't it her choice?

He'd been lucky . . . so lucky. Alexis, serious and thoughtful by nature, had set most of her own boundaries. On the rare occasions that he'd had to set limits or say no to her, more often than not, she'd end up crawling into his lap to quietly admit he'd been right. Or she'd argue her case with such a mixture of passion and sense that  _he'd_ end up admitting he'd been wrong. What made this any different?

 _Trust me. If you hold on too tight, you'll just drive her away_. Castle sighed, simultaneously annoyed with his Inner Beckett and missing the real thing.

His phone rang and he grabbed for it hopefully, "Castle."

" _Mr. Castle, this is Dr. Finn from New York Downtown."_

"Doctor, yes!"

" _I'm calling you against my better judgment."_ Her tone implied that this was the understatement of the year.

"I hope Ms. Carter is doing better?" he asked in the innocent voice that usually earned him a twist of the ear from Beckett.

" _No."_ She hesitated.  _"Well, yes . . . she's gotten some rest and the latest images show that subdural swelling is going down gradually. I've upgraded her condition. But she's still distraught. And she keeps asking for you. I've warned her that anything that raises her blood pressure . . ."_

 _Good voice_ , Castle thought idly as she rattled off symptoms and scenarios. He flipped the note pad to yet another clean page. He pictured the young doctor's pinched, pretty-ish features and began jotting character notes as her voice took him on a tour of her sharp, economical mannerisms.

Nikki deserved a worthy adversary in the early chapters of  _Frozen Heat,_ and he knew he'd let her down. Three months of radio silence from Beckett had left him drawing a painful blank when it came to writing Nikki through Rook's recovery. Everything had come out flat. Two-dimensional and not at all Nikki. Gina would  _kill_ him for suggesting content changes at this point, but . . .

" _. . . Mr. Castle?"_

"Yes! Sorry." He sat up and dropped his pen guiltily. "So I should come down there?"

" _Only if you're prepared to do something about the situation,"_ she snapped.

"The situation?" Castle wondered how much he'd missed while he was off in writer-land.

" _I thought I made myself clear, Mr. Castle: I want those thugs out of my hospital. Make that happen and I'll let you see my patient."_

"Thugs? Oh!  _Thugs!_ Clayton Winnert's 'people.' You haven't let them see her?" Castle asked in a panic. Beckett would grind him into a fine powder if Winnert's people had gotten to interview Edith Carter.

" _Of course not! I may have to live with the police breathing down my neck . . . "_

"So if I get Mr. Winnert to call off his men, I can see Ms. Carter again?"

" _Yes, Mr. Castle as I_ just _said, I think you are the best of a very bad set of options_."

"Oh, if I had a nickel for every time a woman said that to me," Castle muttered as he started clearing his desk.

" _Excuse me?"_

 _Like ice!_ Castle couldn't resist scribbling a final note before he stuffed the whole pad back into the laptop bag, followed shortly by the laptop itself. "Um . . . nothing. I'm on my way, Doctor. And I'm sorry about earlier. I have . . . better information this time and I'll be more careful."

" _Damned right, you will be."_ Finn took advantage of the last known use for the landline and slammed down the phone.

* * *

Beckett was going quietly insane. And judging from the diligent tapping of Ryan's keyboard and the Esposito's casually menacing phone voice, she was going alone. Even the Captain was apparently too busy to rake her over the coals: Half an hour ago, she'd informed the bullpen that she was not to be disturbed before pointedly snapping her blinds shut.

A brief flurry of activity had followed Esposito's news about the trip to California. The Orange County Court Clerk had turned out to be an officious little twit who didn't seem to understand that the confidentiality of a marriage license no longer applied if one of the parties was dead. Beckett might have enjoyed laying the smack down on him a little too much.

But now, Ryan was doing a crash course on confidential marriage licenses and how, exactly, this new development changed things; Esposito was back to leaning on every possible low-life who might have a lead on Barnes, and she was . . . waiting.

She'd filled a little more than a page of Castle's notepad with halting, half-formed ideas, but it was slow going without him as a springboard. True, she considered it her solemn duty to shoot down 90% of his theories, but they sparked off one another, fast and furious and . . .  _Whoa_ ,  _workplace thoughts, Kate._

She glanced at his empty chair.  _Workplace thoughts. Just one problem with that._

"You tell him?" Esposito was suddenly standing next to her desk.

"Tell who, what?" Beckett emphatically underlined something on the notepad to hide the fact that he'd startled her. Unfortunately "something" turned out to be the words "passionate love bite." She was  _not_  blushing.

"Castle. About the secret wedding. Figure he'd do that thing with the crazy theories, you'd do that thing where you pull out the one that was just the right amount of crazy, and we're all home in time for dinner in front of the TV."

"Like I can't close a case without him?" She swung around in her chair and fixed him with a glare.

Esposito shot her a strange look. "Like it's stupid that we have to. This case is  _totally_ Castle. Probably would've closed it by lunch yesterday without all the running around, hiding in stairwells."

Beckett winced.  _Overcompensating. Right_. "Probably right. I should . . ."

Esposito's cell buzzed. He fished it from his pocket and looked at Beckett, puzzled. "Speak of the devil." He lowered his voice, "Yo, Castle."

Beckett clenched the notepad to keep her traitorous hand from snatching the phone away. A jagged tear zipped diagonally across the top page.

Esposito instinctively took two steps back. "Right here. You wanna . . . "

She kept her eyes on the desk, carefully tearing off the page like it was what she meant to do all along. It didn't eat up nearly as much time as she'd hoped. She gripped the pen and bent her head over the pad, studiously making marks as though she were going over the notes.

"Whoa, calm down bro," Esposito said as he craned his neck to follow Beckett's pen. "Nah, she's not busy. Making me and Ryan do all the work as usual. Just drawing little hearts around your initials."

Beckett's head snapped up. In her mind, she burned a hole directly through Esposito, and the murder board burst into flames.

"Castle, you there? Yeah, yeah. I got it." He ended the call and met her glare with a grin. "Said to tell you the housekeeper's awake. Needs your help at New York Downtown."

Beckett pushed to her feet, practically shaking with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. She stalked over to Esposito and drew herself up to her full height. She thrust one finger in his face, made a noise (it was definitely not a growl), turned on her heel, and stalked to the elevator, which knew better than to make her wait.

"So. Beckett and Castle admit they  _like_  like each other, or what?" Ryan asked without looking up from his keyboard.

"At least," Esposito replied as he sank back into his chair and reached for his phone.

"About time."

" 'Bout  _damned_  time."

* * *

Beckett couldn't quite make herself switch off the ignition. The air conditioning had finally kicked in and she couldn't bear the thought of stepping out into the oppressive heat again just yet. She grimaced into the rearview mirror. A 13-minute drive from the precinct, and even in the dim parking garage, her cheeks were still burning.

It was the heat and the afternoon traffic.  _Clearly_  the traffic. Which also explained her pounding heart and the fact that her stomach was trying to squeeze through her diaphragm and scale her rib cage. It had  _nothing_ to do with Esposito teasing her or the fact that she was about to see Castle again for the first time in almost 5 hours.  _Because that would be ridiculous._

She tipped her head back and allowed herself 30 seconds to bask in the freezing air blasting from the vents.  _Enough. She_ put on her game face and clicked the Crown Vic's locks open. The passenger-side door flew open, and without missing a beat, Beckett's hand moved from the seatbelt latch to the butt of her gun.

Castle threw up both hands. "Don't shoot!"

" _Jesus,_ Castle," she gasped. "Were you hiding behind the trash cans?"

"No, just waiting for you."

"How did you even know where I would park?"

"Near the stairwell, but not immediately next to it," he gestured out the driver's side window. "Car facing the exit ramp so you wouldn't have to go up to go down. Always an exterior spot if there is one."

She sat there blinking a moment.

"Writer. I pay attention." He leaned in and met her lips with his briefly. "Missed you. This is ridiculous."

She wanted to be stern and all business, but that was kind of adorable, and  _for the love of God_ , had he always smelled this good? She gave chase as he pulled back and stole another kiss. One with tongue and teeth and suddenly  _hands._

"Whoa. Beckett," he panted, "please . . . and I hate myself for saying this . . . but please stop."

"Stop. Right." She closed her eyes and tried to get her breathing under control.

Castle pressed himself against the door, as far from her as possible. For all the good it did. He grabbed for her again, catching her ear lobe with his teeth as he murmured, "Mmm. Never mind. Dr. Finn is like a pit bull. We have time."

She meant to fight him off. Really. In her mind, she was pushing him away. Pinning him to the spot with a glare and pulling information out of him with unrelenting efficiency.

It just so happened that  _not_  in her mind they were totally making out in the front seat of her Crown Vic. And why the hell had American car manufacturers abandoned roomy bench front seats anyway? Because this  _stupid_  center console was leaving her no choice but to . . .

"Castle!" She jerked away. Her knee slammed against the steering wheel as she clambered back into the driver's seat.

Castle grimaced at the crack of bone and reached to soothe the spot. Her hand shot out and caught his wrist, lightning fast.

"Don't," she hissed through her teeth. "It's fine. Pain is good."

His eyebrows shot up and immediately fell. She wasn't glaring any more. She was pleading.  _Careful. Careful._ He turned to face front and pressed his hands into his thighs.

"Sorry," he muttered.

She snorted and rubbed at her knee. "So what's going on?"

"Edith Carter's condition has been upgraded, and Dr. Finn is willing to let me talk to her."

"Finally!" She twisted the key out of the ignition and reached for the door handle just as the locks clicked shut.

Castle shrank back with an apologetic look. "She's willing to let  _me_ talk to her, Beckett."

"Screw  _that_ ," she snapped as she clicked the locks open again. "If she's not critical, I don't need permission."

"No," Castle said evenly, "you don't, but I think it's . . . smarter . . . to play it this way."

Oh  _now_  she was doing something criminally close to pouting and it was in no way fair. He was  _trying_  to be good. He knocked his head against the window to clear it.

"Fine." She folded her arms over her chest. "Then why am I even  _here_?" She swiveled in her seat to look at him. "Oh my  _God_ , Castle, did you drag me down here as an excuse to  _make out?"_

He did  _not_ whimper. "No! Of course not! I wouldn't . . . ok I totally  _would_ , but in this case I  _didn't._  I need your help."

"What for?"

"Clayton Winnert has people hovering outside Edith Carter's room. Dr. Finn hasn't let them in," he added quickly, "and she doesn't have to. But she wants them gone."

"And you want me to flex my muscle," she nodded.

"I would not have put it that way just now, but yes." He flashed her a weak smile. "And I thought we could work the rift angle. Public blow-up between us for them to take back to Winnert."

"And you get to be the good guy with Winnert again." She dropped her head back against the seat with a sigh.

"Kate." He reached out to touch her arm, then snatched his fingers back.  _Touching. Confined space. Not a good idea._ "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Ryan told me. That you went to bat for me with Gates. That . . ." he looked down at his hands and his voice dropped even lower, " . . . means a lot to me."

Her heart broke a little. Was he  _that_  uncertain of her? The answer came swiftly:  _Why_ wouldn't  _he be?_

She watched as he deliberately shook off the moment. His face, his posture settled into their more familiar teasing lines.

She spoke quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, "It means a lot to me, too, Castle. Working with you. Having you here. It's . . . this has been hard. Trying to work this without you. I don't like it."

Castle sat stock still for a moment. Words and more words came bubbling up in his chest. There was so much he wanted to say. And this  _so_  wasn't the time for it. He settled for not even trying to hide his stupid grin. "Told you I'd grow on you."

"Like a fungus," she shot back and hoped he couldn't see her digging her nails into the upholstery. "We should go."

"Not yet." He did touch her arm this time and watched, fascinated, as her pupils dilated and her nostrils flared.

 _Oh, filing_ that _away to enjoy later, detective_. She slowly, deliberately withdrew her arm and fixed him with a look that said she knew  _exactly_ what he was thinking.

He gulped and tried to remember what he'd intended to say. "Um . . . we should . . . can you turn the air conditioning back on? We should catch each other up. Please tell me you brought my notepad."

 _Notes. Things to keep his hands busy. Things to keep his hands busy that were not attached to_ her.

" _Your_ notepad, Castle?" She slid the key back into the ignition and gave it half a turn before reaching behind her seat to fish out the item in question.

" _Your_ murder board,  _my_ notepad," he replied as he took it from her and froze. "It's . . . torn."

He looked so  _aghast_  that she couldn't help laughing, despite a tiny pang of guilt. "You can still read it."

"Do I lick your murder board?"

"Ex _cuse_ me?"

"Poor choice of metaphor," he grumbled. "I'll rewrite it later."

"Baby," she muttered.

"No time for pet names now, Beckett." He directed his smirk downward as he flipped through the pages and scanned her additions. "So Barnes is a double . . . no triple agent? Does that seem way beyond his skill set to you?"

"Triple?" She turned toward him in her seat.

"Clayton Winnert hires him for the background check. . ."

". . . Audra hires him to fake that."

"Audra thinks he's  _still_  working for her right up through yesterday." He tapped his pen on the pad next to her notes about the burner cell phones. "But there's a third party . . . "

"Why not Clayton Winnert? Barnes is no genius. Simplest way to keep drawing two paychecks," she argued.

Castle shook his head. "We know Clayton didn't kill Philip. If Winnert wanted him gone, he'd be  _gone._ No body. No publicity. He'd never bring this mess on himself."

"Barnes could've screwed it up. Like you said: Outside his skill set."

"Which is why Clayton would never have let him anywhere near any plan to get rid of Philip permanently."

"You're right. It's just . . ." Beckett ground her teeth. "We should be closing in by now. Crossing suspects off the list not adding them."

"Maybe we're not," he murmured, his attention on the notepad as he flipped through the pages, "Maybe it's already here. We just have to put the story together."

"It's not a story. It's a damned jigsaw puzzle."

"Just a different kind of story." He pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.

She had to smile at that. "You're stubborn, Castle. You know that?"

His head swiveled toward her, his pen suspended over the page. " _I'm_ stubborn."

"Different kind of stubborn," she clarified. "Optimistic stubborn."

"Guess I am. When it pays off, it pays off," he said softly.

 _Oh, dangerous._ With an effort of will, she tore her gaze from his. "So . . . puzzle pieces. What about Winnert? He give you anything?"

"Other than an overpowering need to shower? Not a lot. Audra had a regular appointment with a psychiatrist. Haven't had time to track down the name, but I've got the address. Somewhere in Orangeburg." He smoothed his hand across the final page of notes. Hers, just a few sad, disjointed facts.

"Orangeburg?" Kate jerked forward and jabbed her finger at her own writing. "Castle, Philip Grayson _—Chase_ had a verified residence in Orangeburg from 2006 to 2009."

"Marriage license?" He batted her hand away. "Beckett what is . . . ow! You  _pinched_ me!"

"You  _slapped_ my  _hand_!"

"I did. That was . . . not smart." He absently brought the back of her hand to his lips, his eyes still on the page. "But Beckett, if Audra and Philip— _Chase—_ were already married . . . ." He trailed off and flipped back several pages.

"They were. They flew to California six days ago. The license is probably on my desk by now," she said impatiently.

He found what he was looking for and held the pad up to her, "If they were married, then Audra Winnert is the heir to Winterfield. Or one of them . . ."

"And if the  _other_ heir thought they were getting rid of the competition by killing Philip Grayson before he came out as Charles Grace, III . . . "

"They'd have wanted everyone to  _know_  he was dead. That's why they didn't just make him disappear! They needed a body to end the legal mess the  _other_ Charles Grace left behind. Barnes  _has_  to be working for the other heir."

"Who had motive to kill Philip Grayson  _and_ go after Audra Winnert," she finished.

Oh, she wanted to kiss him on  _so many_ levels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh dearie me. This chapter was so much more work to get done because it had been so long since the last update. Hoping I'm back in the groove with it, though, especially if the Compulsion Fairy pipes down with the one-shots that have nothing to do with this story. This will probably end up at around 20 chapters, and I promise much more timely updates from here on out.
> 
> We're certainly and officially AU at this point, given Always. When I started this in December I never dreamed that Caskett would be where it ended up. 


	16. Chapter 16

  


* * *

 

There were three of them. Variations on a theme: One sandy blonde, one with dark hair, a little grey at the temples, and one completely bald. Beckett smirked as she took in their not-quite-identical black suits.

"Smooth," Castle whispered while they were still too far away to be noticed. "All they need is mirrored shades and earpieces."

"Please, Castle: Cuff mics. Ear pieces are so '90s."

He stifled a laugh and gave her one last smile. "Ready for this?"

"Show time," she said as she took a deep breath.

"Detective." His tone was low and angry: Loud enough to carry without his words being intelligible to Winnert's goons. "I've had about enough of the turtlenecks and high-necked blouses. I want to see some cleavage. And would it  _kill_  you to wear a goddamned skirt once in a while?"

She'd always thought of "jaw dropping" as cheap hyperbole. In that moment, she retroactively cut a break to every author who'd ever used it. "What the  _hell_?"

Three heads swiveled toward them at once. There was no question that she'd been heard  _and_  understood.

"Just a suggestion, Detective," he said with a smirk as they approached the three stooges.

"Gentlemen. I believe you've heard of Detective Beckett. And here she is." He let his eyes roam over her from head to toe. "In the flesh."

Beckett stiffened her spine and turned away from him. "We've gotten some complaints," she said, flat and business-like, with a current of very real anger underneath. "And that means you're out of here."

Castle held up his hands to them in a gesture of reassurance. He turned to Beckett and leaned in. "Detective. This is a  _public_  hospital, and that gives these gentlemen a perfect right to be here, so long as they don't interfere with patient care." He pivoted back toward the three men. "Are you interfering, gentlemen?"

There was a kind of Mexican stand-off of perplexed looks. The bald one, who seemed to have a few more neurons firing than the other two, spoke at last, "Following doctor's orders. Until we hear different from Mr. Winnert."

"Do you see, Detective Beckett?" Castle gave her a condescending smile. "Not interfering. So  _you_ don't have a long,  _long_ leg to stand on."

"Oh, I see, Mr. Castle." There was enough steel in her tone to make Castle blink. "I see three cell phones. All of them switched on in direct violation of the posted hospital policy."

Beckett snapped her fingers and pointed to the sign the blonde was practically leaning against as he scrolled down the screen looking bored.

"Really? You're going with a petty policy violation?" Castle chuckled. "That's . . . well, it would be adorable if it weren't so  _sad_."

"Would you like to know what else I  _see_ , Castle?" She drew herself up and stepped closer.

A  _lot_  closer. She was practically inside his suit jacket. Castle's hands twitched. He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and held on for dear life.

"What's that, Detective?" He hadn't intended to pitch his voice  _quite_ that low.

The tip of Beckett's tongue touched the very center of her upper lip. It was very nearly all over right then and there, but her hand shot out, lightning fast and plucked the cell phone from the blonde's hand. She turned on her heel and stepped out of Castle's personal space.

"I see a text message discussing Edith Carter's medical condition with Clayton Winnert." She held up the phone. "Who is  _not_  a relative. That's a violation of Ms. Carter's rights."

The blonde shot a panicked look at his dark-haired compatriot, who shrugged. For half a second, Baldy looked ready to murder them both, but he turned a blank look on Beckett, "Carter's worked for the Winnerts for almost 40 years. She's family."

"No," Beckett replied evenly. "She's an employee. And her right to privacy is protected under New York Code section 203-C. Now, the penalties for violating that code are usually monetary . . ."

"And I'm sure Clayton will be more than happy to cover any expenses these gentlemen incur in the course of their duties," Castle winked at the three of them.

"I wasn't finished." She more than matched his cool tone, but steadily notched up her volume, deliberately drawing the attention of various hospital employees. "As I was saying, the penalties are usually monetary, but until I know just how  _serious_  this invasion of patient privacy is, I can hold all three of these gentlemen."

There was a momentary blip in the bald one's calm exterior. They both saw it and slipped smoothly into the next phase of the game.

"Detective," Castle laid down just a thin layer of concern beneath the condescension, "are you really so desperate for a little win that you're going to waste everyone's time with this?"

"I've got nothing  _but_  time. My team has time. And the uniforms in homicide—we've got a lot of uniforms. You wouldn't  _believe_  the time they have."

Blondie looked like he was about to take a run at her. His dark-haired friend wasn't far behind. Castle was just waiting for the bald one to flinch. He didn't have to wait long.

"Listen, bitch," he growled as he advanced on her.

Beckett didn't give an inch. Castle stepped in front of her. One palm made contact with Baldy's chest a little more firmly than he'd intended. The goon stumbled back a step.

Beckett took the opportunity to elbow Castle hard in the ribs. He rounded on her.

 _What the hell?_ she mouthed.

 _What?_  he mouthed back.

"You want to put your hands on me again, Castle?" she prodded him with the heel of her hand. "Didn't learn your lesson the last time?

Oh the expression on his face was  _priceless._

"Oh, I learned so  _many_ things, Detective." He gave her a long, heavy stare before turning back to Winnert's men. "The detective is very particular about  _who_ touches her and  _how._ "

He glanced back at Beckett as he threw an arm around the bald one's shoulder and herded the three of them a few steps away.

"She'll cry assault in a heartbeat," he said in a stage whisper. "But, listen, I've got this. Charmed that blonde doctor earlier, and she said she'd let me in to see the old lady. May be best for you guys to make yourself scarce for a while."

Baldy wasn't quite convinced.

Castle nodded conspiratorially. "I understand. You want to clear this with Clayton. That's no problem, I can call him."

He pulled out his phone and started punching buttons as he turned to Beckett with a flourish. "Surely it's ok for me to use my phone in the interests of clearing this up, Detective?"

"I will kick your ass out in a heartbeat. Right along with your boyfriends," Beckett answered nonchalantly.

He gave her an insincere smile and made a show of powering off the phone.

An instant later, Beckett's phone buzzed. She looked down at the screen to find Castle's picture smiling back at her. The text next to it read "5318008." She frowned at it a moment, then sighed. "Turns out I don't have as much time as I thought. I'm just gonna call hospital security. Have them hold you until some officers from the twelfth can get down her to pick you up.

Baldy's patience finally ran out, "You know what? We'll save you the trouble. Boss told us you were ok, Castle. Seems like you've got this covered. We'll . . . make ourselves scarce."

"There you have it, Detective. Now is it really worth putting hospital security and your officers to the trouble when we're all cooperating? I'm sure these gentlemen would even appreciate an escort to the parking garage." His tone suggested he was offering her a choice of lollipops.

Beckett swept a hard stare over the three men, then turned it on Castle. "Fine," she said as she pushed the blonde man's cell phone back into his hand. "Let's go."

The thugs started off down the hall with Beckett on their heels. Castle hesitated, hoping for . . .  _something_ , but all he got was Blondie's confused voice drifting back down the hall. "Hey, how come  _she_ can use her phone?"

Baldy smacked the push bar on the door harder than was strictly necessary and barreled through. Castle turned to head toward Edith Carter's room, but something made him look back.

Beckett hesitated in the doorway at the end of the hall. He smiled and gave her a small wave. She flipped her phone around in her hand and held it up by two fingers. He smiled wider as she mouthed,  _Boobies, Castle?_ and rolled her eyes.

 

* * *

 

"Slow going." Ryan bumped the mouse with his hand to wake the monitor.  _No new emails._ "Still waiting to hear back on a couple of calls I put out, but this probate case has been locked down since the minute Charles Grace died."

" _Keep on it_ , _"_  Beckett's voice echoed his own frustration.  _"Everything keeps coming back to Winterfield."_

"Or that neck of the woods," he muttered.

" _You got something else?"_

"Nothing solid, but I noticed something when I was running down that address in Orangeburg."

" _The address_." Beckett exhaled noisily.  _"Where are we on that?"_

"It's not a residence." He clicked a tab and brought up a map.

"What?  _Then how was it in the TSA database?"_

"It  _used_  to be a residence, but according to Rockland County real estate records it hasn't had a valid Certificate of Occupancy since the early '80s."

She ground her teeth loudly enough to make Ryan wince on the other end of the phone.  _"So it's_ another _dead end?"_

"Well, no one lives there, but there's an owner. Until three years ago, they kept up the property enough to keep the neighbors from complaining." Ryan idly circled his pointer over the red bubble pinned to the address.

" _Please tell me the owner is someone that's already on the murder board?"_

"Not exactly. It's a very high-end law firm: Leland and Kemper."

" _Let me guess: Confidential client list and more stonewalling."_

"Got it in one. But there's some good news." Ryan pushed up from his chair and wandered over to the murder board, trailing the phone cord after him. "The name sounded familiar." He picked up a marker and uncapped it. "Turns out they represented  _Doctor_ Raymond Sanders in a criminal case brought by the state of New York."

" _Sanders?_ Shit.  _Castle took the notepad,"_ she muttered,  _"Isn't he? He's . . ."_

"The shady psychoanalyst. Leland and Kemper kept him out of jail," Ryan supplied as he wrote Sanders' name on the board. "How  _is_  Castle?"

" _Good,"_ she said absently.  _"Fine! Castle's fine. I mean . . . he's . . . he's with Edith Carter."_

Ryan tried to cover a bark of laughter with a cough. He failed.  _Shit._  "Good. And . . . uh. I mean . . . Wait, how come  _you're_ not with Edith Carter."

There was a long pause.  _"She's out of critical condition, but the doctor doesn't want her_ upset.  _So I cleared out Winnert's thugs."_

He blinked at the phone in his hand. "And let Castle interview her alone? Ah . . . well. He  _is_ good. At that. Interviews . . . ah . . . getting people's stories. Yeah, he's good and . . . uh . . . "

" _Ryan."_  He could practically feel Beckett's glare sizzling down the phone line.

"Uh . . . yeah, so anyway. That case against Sanders?"

Beckett left him hanging for a couple a beats. Just for good measure.  _"The case against Sanders."_

"Yeah, so that's filed in 2009."

" _Which is when the state closed down that mental hospital."_

"And 2009 is also the end date on Chase's 'residence' at that Orangeburg address.  _And_  that's when Leland and Kemper let the property fall into disrepair. The place was demolished in 2011."

" _So Leland and Kemper were handling more than criminal charges for Raymond Sanders."_

"And thanks to Castle's mother," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "we know that Raymond Sanders was probably handling things for Charles Grace . . . "

" _Things like 'fixing' Grace's son,"_ Beckett finished.  _"But how does the fake address fit in?"_

"Confidentiality, maybe?" Ryan dropped back into his desk chair. "I'm looking at the complaint against Sanders. The families named in the lawsuit are all heavy hitters. Charles Grace types."

" _And Clayton Winnert types . . ."_

"I thought of that," he cut in. "He's not named in it."

" _Damnit."_  Ryan heard something slam in the background.

"I'll keep on it . . . try to keep on it. I've got this probate thing, too."

Beckett sighed,  _"Yeah, sorry to dump this all on you. Keep digging, though. About the only thing Audra Winnert and Philip Grayson seem to have in common is bad parents and trauma."_

"So they might have crossed paths through Sanders. Got it."

" _Thanks, Kevin. I'll be back . . . soon? I hope."_

"No rush on my account. And say hi to Castle from me," he said in a rush and quickly disconnected.

Ryan swiveled his chair back toward the desk, and went back to scanning  _The State of New York v. Doctor Raymond Sanders_. It was boring as hell, though not quite as boring as probate hell. Within a few minutes he was completely absorbed.

“Detective. I see congratulations are in order.”

“Ma’am! Sir! Captain!” Ryan jerked around in his chair. He hadn’t even heard Gates come out of her office, let alone step up behind him.  _Right_ behind him. “Um . . . congratulations?” 

“Well, you’re the only one here. No Detective Beckett. No Detective Esposito. Just you. The only explanation  _I_  can think of is your team closed this  _very high profile case_  and stuck you with the paperwork.” 

"Uh . . . no. I’m still working on the probate law angle.” He cleared his throat to buy some time, unsure whether or not he should bring up Leland and Kemper.  _Not without back-up_ , he decided _._  “Slow going. Wills are supposed to be public record once the person dies and probate starts. But for some reason, Charles Grace’s will— _wills_ —weren’t. Got two sets of lawyers stonewalling me now.” 

“Privilege,” Gates said with a grim sneer. “Throw enough money at something and suddenly the rules don’t apply.” 

Ryan nodded, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do, and Gates was looking at him expectantly.  

“And?” she asked finally. 

“And?”

“And what else do we have, Detective? And where are Detectives Beckett and Esposito?” She made an impatient gesture at the empty desks around him.  

“Esposito . . . Detective Esposito is paying a visit to an acquaintance of Randall Barnes,” Ryan made a mental note to make Beckett and Esposito pay for leaving him to  deal with Gates solo. 

“Paying a visit?” Her tone was sharp. “Something wrong with our interview rooms?” 

“I think Detective Esposito thought the acquaintance might be more . . . forthcoming in a more  . . . casual setting.” 

“Casual.” The Captain let the word come completely to rest as she gave Ryan a long stare. “And why aren’t you paying this visit along with your partner?”

“I’m not . . . casual?” Ryan hadn’t intended to turn it into a question, but she had that effect on him.

The look she gave him suggested that Gates knew exactly the effect she had on him. “Detective Beckett?”

 _Finally! An easy one._ Ryan breathed a sigh of relief. “She’s at New York Downtown Hospital.” 

“Edith Carter is awake?” Gates leaned in eagerly. “Detective Beckett is getting an interview?” 

“Yes?”  

“Detective.”

“I think there was something that Dr. Finn wanted Detective Beckett to take care of first.” He gave what he hoped was a firm nod. “But she’s . . . .  _we’re_  . . . getting that interview. Yeah. Definitely.” 

Gates made him wait. Again. “Edith Carter asked for Castle again, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.” He did  _not_ hang his head.  

“And Dr. Finn has no intention of letting Detective Beckett interview Ms. Carter. Does she?” 

“I wouldn’t say  _no_  intention,” Ryan said hopefully.  _Oh, God, please let this be over_.

“Privilege,” she muttered, then added, “I assume that probate law is not going anywhere, Detective?” 

 _Not over._ “Captain?” 

“I’d like a word—in private—with my team. And since you’re the only member of my team who isn’t  _casually_ skulking around or lurking in hospital stairwells . . .” She gestured to her office door. 

Ryan wondered if maybe he’d died and hadn’t realized it yet.

 

* * *

Castle nodded a thank you to the nurse ( _Gary? Maybe Jerry?_ ) as he wheeled his cart away from Edith Carter's bedside and gestured at the guest chair.

"How's she doing?" Castle asked quietly.

"Blood pressure is still high, but not rising any more. She needs her rest."

"I won't wake her," Castle hastily replied. "I have time."

The man's face softened a little. "She's a tough lady, but it's not good."

Castle didn't know what to say to that, so he nodded again. Gary—or possibly Jerry—nodded back and threaded his way out of the room with the cart.

Castle looked around helplessly. It felt strange and more than a little selfish to sit there staring at Edith Carter and willing her to wake up, particularly given the nurse's warning. Despite his promise, though, he had a feeling that they really  _didn't_ have time.

He tried to pull the notepad from his bag as quietly as possible,  _tsk_ ing as he smoothed out the torn page. He smiled at the thought of making Beckett pay for that, then frowned at the thought of how she might make  _him_ pay for his little performance for Winnert's "people."

But it was just an act.  _She knew it was just an act, right?_

He took a breath to clear his head and turned to her added page of notes. As it turned out, it wasn't appreciably easier to keep his mind on making sense of them. without her being dangerously near. The problem was he couldn't stop thinking about how much he  _liked_  her being dangerously near. And that he'd like to be dangerously near her again, as soon as humanly possible.

 _So solve the damned case_. He was trying to be stern with himself, but he could feel the stupid smile on his face.

"I told her not to trust you, but I was wrong. You have a kind smile." Edith Carter's voice was faint.

"Ms. Carter, I hope I didn't wake you." He leaned forward to make it easier for her to see him without having to move too much.

"Wasn't asleep. Said I couldn't see you until I rested. Pretended." Castle could see that it took no small amount of effort just to focus her eyes.

He gave a guilty laugh. "You're going to get us both in more trouble than we already are."

"You'll help them, won't you? She must be so afraid."

Speaking was obviously already taking its toll on the older woman. Castle knew he had to use what time he had wisely, but he had so many questions that only she could answer. He took a breath and channeled his recently discovered inner Beckett:  _Find Audra. Start with_   _where she would go._

"I'll do whatever I can to help Audra, Ms. Carter, but she needs your help, too. You know where she went, don't you?"

"She just wanted to keep her safe. Nowhere is safe from him." She worried a twist of the ugly green hospital blanket in her hands. Her head shifted restlessly on the pillow.

 _Shit. Too many pronouns. And she's getting worked up again._ Inner Beckett testily reminded him to keep the woman calm, but offered no helpful suggestions on how, exactly, to do that without squandering the opportunity.

"Where would Audra go to feel safe?" He asked as gently as he could.

"She didn't have anything to do with . . . You know that, don't you?"

"Of course not. I know that and so do . . . so does Detective Beckett." Bringing up Beckett was a risk, but this wasn't ultimately a solo mission. The sooner Edith Carter got used to the idea that the police weren't the enemy, the sooner they could bring Audra home, solve this case, and get back to all dangerous closeness all the time.

 _Focus, Castle,_  inner Beckett snapped. Inner Beckett was significantly less fun than real Beckett. Although she was less physically violent, he thought as he rubbed his sore ribs.  _FOCUS_ , she repeated.

He shook himself and rushed on, "That's why Audra sent you to us. We want to find her to keep her safe. She's not a suspect."  _Well, it's_ mostly  _true,_  he told himself.

The white lie was wasted: Edith Carter went on as if she hadn't heard him at all, "She'd never hurt that poor boy. He was . . . it broke her heart. And if there were anything less at stake . . ." She trailed off for a moment, then rushed on, "It was his idea. He thought they could save her. He made her brave. And now . . ."

She choked on a sob and struggled to pull herself up. Castle was on his feet in an instant. He slid his arm under the pillow and supported her as he fumbled with the bed controls. He raised the head of the bed and settled her back into a more upright position. The beeping of the monitors ramped up the sense of urgency.

"Ms. Carter, you need to stay calm," he warned. "Dr. Finn won't let me stay if you get upset."

"I don't like her," she snapped.

Castle suppressed a smile. "She's a good doctor. She wants you to get well."

"Doctors.  _Hospitals_." She turned her face away. She'd practically spit the words, but a tear escaped down her cheek. She swiped at it clumsily with a weak, trembling hand. "No one gets well in a hospital. That's why . . . oh, Mr. Castle, you'll help them, won't you?"

"Rick . . . Richard," he murmured with a frown. Her vehemence surprised him. The writer in him said there was a thread to follow there, but inner Beckett would have none of it.  _Location, Castle_.

He shook himself and tried to sound reassuring. "Well, you're going to, because you have to. Audra needs you. And I need you to help me find her."

"She didn't tell me where they were going," she said quietly. "She knew I had to go back. I would never— _never_ —tell that man anything. But she thought . . . she thought it was better if I didn't know."

"But you have to have some idea. She trusts you. Confides in you. If anyone . . ."

The orchestra of beeping monitors kicked up a notch, and Castle reined himself in. The woman was concussed, medicated, and scared out of her mind for a girl she obviously looked on as a daughter. Trying to drag information out of her in a straight line wasn't going to work.  _New tactic,_ he said by way of apology to inner Beckett.

"Tillie." He stood. "I'm sorry. I'm upsetting you. Audra wouldn't want that. Maybe I should go."

Her eyes widened. She jerked and strained against the blankets briefly, then settled herself with an obvious effort of will. "You have to help them. I'm . . . I'm not upset."

"It's ok. I'll stay close by. Dr. Finn can tell me when you're well enough to talk." Castle stomped down a flare of guilt at such blatant manipulation.

"No! No."

He watched in awe as the woman pulled herself together: She clenched and unclenched her fists once, then clasped them loosely at her waist. Her eyes slipped closed and she took a deep breath. When she opened them again, Castle saw the fierce, intimidating woman he'd met just two days ago—or a glimpse of her anyway.  _Manipulation for the win._

"Are you sure?" He asked as he settled himself back in the chair.

She nodded, weak but determined.

"Ok." He nodded back. "Tell me how I can help them. What do they need most right now?"

"Safety." Her face lit up suddenly. "A safe place! You could take them to a safe place. He thinks . . . you made him think you were on his side. But you're not on his side, are you?"

"Clayton . . . Audra's father?" Castle tried to grab the thread of the conversation and hang on. Meanwhile, his brain was spinning in an attempt to think of safe places he could bring Audra and . . . whoever . . . while inner Beckett informed him in no uncertain terms that real Beckett would mount choice pieces of him on the bullpen wall if that "safe place" was anywhere other than the twelfth.

"Would he . . ." He stopped as he realized that Edith Carter had picked up on his hesitation. The hope that had illuminated her face just a moment ago fled, and she was rapidly shutting down.

"Wait . . . first things first: I am  _not_  on his side, and neither is Detective Beckett." Castle laid his fingers on her arm gently. "We want to help Audra and find out who did this to . . . to Philip. And whatever that brings to light about Clayton Winnert . . . so be it."

She gave Castle a long, intent look. When she spoke, he could hardly hear her. "You know, don't you?"

"Know?" He was stalling for time.  _Know?_  Well, they knew . . . or thought they knew . . . a lot, didn't they? And even if  _she_  knew it, too, he wasn't sure how to broach the topic of the woman's surrogate daughter's dead fiancé's sexual orientation. Or was she talking about Philip's real identity? Or maybe the fact that Audra and Philip had gotten secretly married? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had a feeling that inner Beckett was throwing up her hands in frustration.

Edith Carter came to his rescue by speaking. "About . . . about Claire."

"Claire?" The name yanked him out of his own cluttered thoughts. "Audra's mother. She . . . she killed herself?"

"No." Edith Carter was weeping openly now. "No, she didn't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So. This was getting longish and I ended up chopping part of what I'd intended to put in here to save for the next chapter. We're closing in, friends, and I really appreciate the reviews, alerts, favorites, and encouragement.
> 
> Content-wise, as I noted in the last chapter, this goes AU somewhere before 47 seconds. Marlowe is a kind master and stepped up the nookie pace relative to this story. At least this story so far.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I wrote

  
  


* * *

Esposito checked his cell for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. The edge of the phone was almost hot enough to burn his fingers, but it stubbornly refused to show any word from Ryan or any of the half dozen people who owed him favors. He'd called them all in over the last 45 minutes: He either wanted to know the coast was clear or have more than a red flag to wave under the Captain's nose.

He ducked his head out as the the elevator doors slid open. The bullpen was curiously empty. He might've dodged the Gates bullet for the moment. He checked the cell one more time for good measure.

He turned in a half circle between his own desk and Ryan's as though he expected his partner to materialize. Johnson approached with an armload of file folders. Esposito gave him a nod and a raised eyebrow. Johnson shook his head urgently and made a slight gesture toward the Captain's door with his elbow.

"Beckett?" Esposito mouthed.

Johnson shook his head again and kept walking.

Normally, Esposito would have liked the hush that had fallen over the usually busy bank of desks that made up their little corner of the twelfth. At the moment, though, his mind was running with some ugly thoughts. He'd have welcomed any distraction.

 _Almost any._ He cast an unsettled glance over his shoulder. Montgomery had seldom bothered to close his door and even less frequently drew the blinds. Gates was big on boundaries and the bullpen had lost a good chunk of daylight to her need for privacy.

Esposito gave a fleeting thought to barging in and at least riding out whatever fun and games the Captain had in store alongside his partner. He thought better of it, though. She might get whatever was up her ass this time all out of her system and not completely lose it when she heard Esposito's news.  _Sorry, bro. Not a saint._

He slid behind his desk and punched the speaker on his desk phone. The steady dial tone and a quick scan of his inbox turned up nothing of interest. He clicked over to the web browser and opened a new tab. His hands hovered over the keyboard.

Joe Cavanagh was such a low life that Randall Barnes funneled him the kind of work he had no stomach for. He was also an idiot. A tight-lipped idiot at first, but once Esposito had persuaded him to start talking, Cavanagh had a lot to say. None of it good.

Esposito would have liked to call bullshit on the whole thing, but he had a bad feeling. Everything about this case gave him a bad feeling. And now it was hitting too close to home. He grit his teeth and took his frustration out on his keyboard, punching in search terms one angry letter at a time. Half a dozen hits later, Cavanagh's story still held water.

He quit the browser and spun in his chair to face the murder board. Other than a couple new names that didn't mean much to him, there was't a lot there, either. He really didn't want to start adding these kinds of details without taking it to the team—preferably without Gates—first.

But with Ryan in the hot seat and the radio silence from Beckett and his other leads, he was out of options for procrastination. He pushed to his feet and made his way over to the board itself. He took a marker in each hand and killed some time debating the relative merits of black and green.

"You'd tell me if I was dead, right?"

Esposito spun around to face a decidedly pale Ryan.

"Whoa. Scared the hell out of me!"

Ryan sank on to the edge of Beckett's desk, then popped back up again. He was clutching a tattered plain manila file folder. His eyes darted from the folder to the murder board and back to Gates's office. "We have to get out of here, Esposito."

"Ok, you're freakin' me out now." Esposito followed his partner's gaze around and around the bullpen. He snatched at the folder. "What's that? What'd Gates want?"

"Can't tell you here," Ryan said urgently. He clutched the folder to his chest and used his other hand to grab one marker, then the other from Esposito. "Don't touch the board right now."

"The hell, man?"

"We have to go!" Ryan was trying to keep his voice calm and failing spectacularly. He set the markers down on the ledge below the murder board with great care and deliberation.

"Ok, ok." Esposito realized that one of them needed to stay cool. As usual, Ryan was disqualified. "Got some things I'd rather not talk about here, either. Where to?"

"Beckett." It wasn't quite a statement, wasn't quite a question.

"Yeah, man. We'll get Beckett in a minute." He laid a hand on Ryan's shoulder and maneuvered him toward the elevators. He glanced over his shoulder, but the door to the dark square of their Captain's office. "What'd she do to you, bro?"

Ryan swallowed hard. "This is big. And not good."

* * *

Beckett had definitely reached her Angry Birds limit. She slid the phone into her pocket and slumped back in the molded plastic chair. The cafeteria was depressing as hell, and the coffee was truly a crime, but she needed to be reachable in case Ryan or Esposito came up with anything, and she wasn't about to violate the cell phone policy and give the hospital staff any more ammunition in their fight to keep her away from Edith Carter.

Her thoughts darted from Raymond Sanders to the fake address in Orangeburg to however the hell Barnes fit into the whole picture.  _And who the hell is Audra Winnert traveling with._ Her fingernail caught in a long scar in the chipped formica table and broke off.

Nibbling at the nail's jagged edge, she pulled her phone back out with an irritated hiss. She hated taking notes on anything but the murder board, but she needed something to do with her hands. Castle had taken the notepad, of course. His  _notepad,_ she thought, chewing on the inside of her lip to hold back a smile.

She thought about making a run to the car for her pocket notebook and quickly rejected the idea. Her skin still prickled unpleasantly with drying sweat from her journey into the dark, oppressive parking garage with Winnert's "people."

With a resigned sigh, she started tapping away to get the details of her conversation with Ryan down. The slow, clumsy process wasn't helped by the fact that her eyes kept skating from the screen to the cafeteria entrance.  _Ridiculous_. _It hasn't even been 20 minutes._

It wasn't that a handful of kisses and a quick trip to second base in the front seat of her cruiser had turned her into some pathetically needy creature. She just . . . missed him. Missed the way the four of them could divide and conquer and get things done.

For what felt like the hundredth time in two days, she silently cursed Gates for breaking up her team. They should be hunkered around the board, tossing theories back and forth. Sharing a corner of her desk. "Accidentally" brushing up against each other. Slipping away to find some decently isolated spot . . .

 _Whoa. WHOA!_ The phone clattered to the table. The warm, fuzzy tide of make-out afterglow bled away, and the tide of dread, panic, and  _Oh my god, this will ruin everything_ rolled in. She dropped her head into her hands and focused on breathing.

The truth descended on her: She couldn't do this. That's all there was to it. She had a job to do. So did he. And this . . .  _this_  would obviously ruin everything. She could  _not_  do this. She would just have to tell him that she couldn't do this and things would go back to the way they had always been, and . . .

The rubber feet on the chair across from her dragged across the tile with a forlorn honk as Castle slid into it. She startled violently enough to send her own chair pitching backward. One of his hands snaked out and caught her wrist. The other fumbled a paper coffee cup on to the table with a slosh.

"Castle!" The momentum jerked her forward and righted the chair. She snatched her arm back.

"Beckett, listen! Oh, you're not drinking that vile cafeteria stuff, are you? Here: This is from one of the nurse's private stash. You can drink it on the way. We need to . . ." his voice dropped and he scanned the room. "Not here. We need to . . ."

He suddenly trailed off as her body language registered: Shoulders hunched forward, elbows in, fists stuffed into her own armpits. She was looking at his hand on the table like it was a snake, and she most definitely wasn't looking him in the eye.

"Oh my God," he said loudly as he twitched the cup out of her range. "No coffee for you. You're panicking. Why are you panicking?"

"Castle!" she hissed again. Her eyes darted right and left, but no one seemed to notice that he was practically yelling about their relationship in public. ( _Wait . . . relationship? Oh, God. Were they in a relationship? They couldn't be in a relationship!)_

"What?" he hissed back.

"It won't work," she blurted. "This."

"This." He gave her a blank look. "Us?"

She stared down at the formica. She didn't want to do this here. She didn't want to do this  _anywhere_ , but better to rip off the band-aid all at once. She swallowed hard and nodded to the scarred table top.

Silence stretched out. When she couldn't stand it any more, she raised her eyes. He was  _smiling_ at her.

"Castle." She could hear the desperation in her own voice, but plowed on. "Did you hear me?"

His smile widened just a fraction. "I heard you."

"Then why are you  _smiling?_ " Her volume kept notching up without her permission. Was he relieved? Oh god, if he was relieve she was going to  _kill_ him.

"Because . . ." he drew the word out specifically to drive her crazy. "Because you're wrong."

"I'm wrong," she repeated flatly.

"Wrong," he said again. He leaned across the table. "And you know how I  _love_  proving you wrong, Detective."

She slapped her palms on the table. "Castle, I'm serious."

"Me too." His smile turned from lazy to sincere in time that it took for her heart to bang clumsily against her ribs. He reached for her hand and turned it palm up on the table. He held it for a beat, then let go, trailing his fingers along hers as he drew his own hand back. "It'll work, Kate."

"Rick, I . . ." She looked at him helplessly.

He studied her a minute. "Did you ever wonder why I made Nikki Heat a Theater major?"

Beckett blinked. One of them seemed to be losing it. Judging by his calm, conversational tone, he seemed to think it was her.

"Technically, she was an English major, but she was about to switch to theater when she . . ." He reached out again and pressed his palm to hers briefly. "When her mother was murdered."

"Castle, I'm trying to tell you . . ."

"And  _I'm_  trying to make a point," he interrupted.

"Fine." She crossed her arms again. Aggravation was creeping in to replace the panic. It was oddly soothing. "Make your point. Or try."

"You would've been a hell of an actress. And not just because of . . ." He made a series of gestures in the air, gulped, and made several attempts to resume speaking before his voice came out as something more than a squeak. ". . . the obvious."

"The obvious," she repeated. Now amusement was joining aggravation.

"You're  _hot_ , Kate. And ridiculously tall. And  _hot._ " He'd had a point but he'd temporarily misplaced it in a flood of images.

"So you made my alter ego a Theater major because I'm hot. This is a really  _compelling_  argument, Castle." She said it with a smirk, but he could hear the panic seeping back in.

"Kate." His serious tone made her go still. She peered up at him through her lashes.

He held her gaze for a moment, then went on quietly. "Everyday I watch you. You do this amazing thing. You take little bits of real life and you stitch them into your work. Your mother . . . your dad's drinking. Funny things. Sad things. You put on these personas. And you make people believe."

A blush made its way from the angle of her jaw to the tips of her ears and she looked down at her hands. He ducked his head to follow. "When you're kicking ass in an interrogation or trying to bring a little comfort to a victim's family. Hell, even when you're trying to sweet talk information or a favor out of another department. You tell them these little bits of truth and you make them  _believe_  the whole thing. It's part of what makes you great at your job."

"So you're saying I'm a complete phony and that's why this won't be a disaster?"

"Kate, think about what we just did . . ." He chuckled as her chin snapped up and her eyes went wide. "No, not that. Well, ok, if you need a minute to think about  _that_ , who am I to deny you?"

"Castle!" She gave a shaky laugh.

"I mean just now. With Winnert's meatheads. We used it.  _You_ used it . . this. . . ." He slid his fingers in between hers and held on this time. "And we kicked ass. I know this is going to work, because it  _already_ works. It's always worked."

Beckett was quiet long enough to make him nervous.

"It may not work in the long run," she said slowly. Just when his heart was about to go into free fall, she turned a sly smile on him. "We may not have room for two drama queens."

"I'm sure you and Esposito will work it out," he deadpanned.

Her phone buzzed as if on cue.

"Speak of the devil?" Castle raised an eyebrow.

"No." She frowned down at the screen. "A text from Ryan. 'Need to meet right away. Not at the 12'."

"Right. Let's go." Castle scraped his chair back and made his way around the table. He hauled her to her feet and pressed the coffee into her hand as he made a beeline for the door with her in tow.

"Castle!" She swatted his hand away and skidded to a stop. "I'm calling Ryan . . ."

"No time." He pulled at her elbow. "Text him back and have him meet us at the loft. Esposito, too. There's a  _lot_  to go over."

She rounded on him with a stricken expression. "Jesus, Castle, what happened with Edith Carter. What did she say?"

"Not here." He shook his head urgently. "Seriously, Beckett. Not here."

She wanted to plant her feet and  _make_  him tell her, but something in his face told her this wasn't just his cloak-and-dagger streak at work. "Why the loft?" She said finally.

"My mother's there," he explained. "We might need a crazy person."

* * *

"Girl, you don't even have a body right now. You said you were bored." Esposito bumped the call to speaker and pulled out into traffic.

" _Yeah, I don't know if you know this, Detective, but New York averages about two homicides a day. Add in the bodies that fall under ME jurisdiction and the fact that people get stabby when it's this hot . . . "_

"C'mon, Lanie. We're gettin' the band back together."

" _Can't do it, Javi. I've got 2 hours left on my shift and I'm_ not _going to owe Perlmutter a favor again."_

"Last one wasn't so bad, was it? You looked pretty cute on his arm." Esposito grinned sideways at Ryan, but his partner was staring blankly out the window.

" _I'm hanging up now."_ Lanie didn't sound like she appreciated his humor any more than Ryan did.

"Lanie, wait!" Ryan leaned toward's Esposito's phone and hesitated. He fiddled uncomfortably with the file folder in his lap. "I really think we're gonna need you for this."

" _Then_   _tell me what_ 'this'  _is all about."_

Ryan shook his head, apparently oblivious to the fact that Lanie couldn't see him.

"Says he doesn't want to go over it more than once," Esposito supplied. "Hasn't even told me anything yet. But, Lanie, listen . . . this case is getting heavy."

" _You're really selling it, boys,"_ Lanie sighed.

Esposito shot another look at Ryan, who'd gone back to staring out the window.  _No help at all._

"C'mon. Paperwork'll still be there. They can page you if they catch a body," he paused and tried to gauge how much convincing she really needed. "Besides, don't you want to congratulate the happy couple?"

" _Beckett 'fessed up?"_  Even on speaker, Lanie's shout was ear splitting.  _"Or did Castle talk? Beckett is gonna_ kill  _that man if he's been telling tales."_

"Haven't seen Castle." Esposito chuckled. "But he's obviously been telling tales to  _someone_. Thanks for the confirmation."

" _Oh, you think you're good, don't you?"_ Lanie fumed.

"You  _know_ I'm good, woman."

"I'm sitting right here." Ryan made a face.

"And I'm sittin' there every day when you and Jenny have your mid-morning phone cuddle. Cry me a river, Honeymilk," Esposito shot back. "So you coming or what, Lanie?"

She heaved a sigh that crackled the phone's speaker.  _"Fine. I'll be there in half an hour. But_ only _so you two don't screw this up and send Beckett running. You—both of you—_ will _be cool about this."_

"Hey," Esposito said in an offended tone. "We're cool. Cool is our middle name."

" _No baby, that's fool."_ Lanie hung up.

* * *

Beckett was not happy. Castle had refused—positively  _refused_ —to tell her anything about his conversation with Edith Carter on the way from the hospital to his loft. And now something was going on between him and Martha. She wasn't sure exactly  _what_  was going on, but she knew she didn't like it.

"Here are you, dear. I'm  _so_ sorry it isn't just the way you like it. I was sure we had vanilla syrup somewhere." Martha set down the mug on the end table with a flourish and perched on the couch next to Kate.

 _Right_ next to her. Kate shot her a weak smile and sipped the coffee. "It's fine. Thanks, Martha."

Apparently his mother was too close for Castle's comfort, too. He materialized at Martha's elbow and hauled her up from the couch, none too gently. "Mother. Beckett and I have a couple of things we need to hammer out before the others get here. Can you . . . just be elsewhere? We'll call you when we're ready for you."

"Richard, I'm happy to give you some  _time_  together," she said with a knowing smile. She peeled his fingers from her forearm. "There's no need for violence. I'll just be upstairs."

"Thank you," Castle sighed with relief.

Martha paused at the bottom of the stairs with one hand on the bannister, "You know, Kate, my room is  _quite_  at the other end of the place. For such an open space, the privacy . . . well, it's just one of the best things about this loft."

 _Premature relief_. Castle cringed and braced himself for Beckett's reaction.

"Castle . . . ." There was a warning in her tone, but also more than a little amusement.

"I didn't say  _anything._ She just . . . ." He made a desperate gesture. "And she . . . I didn't  _say_  anything!"

"Relax." She dropped her head back against the couch. "It's not the first time she's dropped 'subtle' hints. Let her think what she wants to think. We just won't . . . confirm or deny right now."

"Right now?" He was trying to be good but now implied a later. And the couch was really just a stone's throw from the office. And from  _there,_  it was just a couple steps . . .

"Yeah," she said softly. "I'm not . . . like you said: We  _will_ talk about it. Just not right now. This case. . . . Everything's too complicated to bring everyone else into this."

"The  _case_  is too complicated," he said as he nudged her foot with his own.

She gave him a small smile back. "Right. So we just don't . . . confirm or deny."

Castle blanched. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He  _really_ needed to warn her about Lanie. He backed a few steps away, realized that nowhere was safe, and lowered himself into an arm chair as he considered possible opening lines. As a writer, he should probably make the last conversation he had on this earth a good one.

The buzzing of Beckett's phone granted him a momentary reprieve. "Ryan again. ETA 15 minutes. Lanie should be right behind them."

"Lanie!" Castle shot out of the chair. "Why is  _Lanie_  coming?"

"No idea. Something about whatever Gates gave Ryan," she said slowly. Her eyes narrowed. "Why? Is that a problem?"

"No!" He paced behind the couch. "Why would that be a problem? I love Lanie . . .  _like_ Lanie! We're friends!"

"Castle." Beckett's voice took on the deadly calm tone that struck fear into the hearts of suspects and would-be boyfriends alike. "You didn't . . . Lanie? Of all people.  _Lanie?_ "

"She took advantage of me!" He planted his hands on the console table, ready to run. Where, he had no idea.

Beckett stood slowly. "What—exactly—did you tell her?"

"Not . . .  _She_ thought we'd slept together," he said desperately. "I had to set her straight, right? Right? And anyway,  _you_ spilled to Esposito."

"I did  _not_  spill to Esposito!"

"Well you did something. Why else would he have made that crack about you drawing hearts around my initials?" He stopped abruptly and couldn't quite bite back a goofy smile. "You weren't  _actually_ drawing hearts . . ."

Her glare shut him down instantly.

"Castle, this is . . ." She rubbed her temples.

"I know," he snapped. Then, more softly. "I know. Kate, I didn't mean to. I don't want to push you or . . . or violate your privacy . . . or . . . I feel like an idiot, but I just can't . . . I'm just . . ."

"Happier?" She was studying the floor intently.

"Yeah," he breathed. He risked a look at her. "Are you . . . you are. Right?"

She raised her eyes a fraction. "Yeah."

She'd only been a few steps away to begin with, but Castle was still trying to figure out how she'd gotten her hands on him so  _quickly_. For a second anyway. Then he was busy trying to figure out how to keep them there indefinitely. Also trying to remember how to stand up.

She solved the latter problem by backing them all the way across the living room and up against the breakfast bar. He made a noise against her jaw that might have been a protest. She had them moving  _away_ from the bedroom. That particular concern died at the exact moment she raised up on her toes and dug both hands beneath his shirt collar.

A button went flying. Her fingertips seemed to have a mind of their own. They were finding all sorts of exquisitely sensitive expanses of skin in the hollows just behind his collar bones. A nagging,  _really irritating_ part of her mind was trying to remind her of something to do with time or math. But then  _his_ hands were on board with this new junior explorer program and she wasn't thinking about anything.

He pushed off and wound an arm around her waist. He broke from the kiss to twist them around so she was backed up against the bar. His hand caught in her hair, and his thumb came to rest against her cheekbone. He looked down at her, breathless.

Beckett's eyes widened. He'd gone from zero to deliciously, irresistibly disheveled in . . .  _Shit. How long had it been._ Suddenly her fingers weren't exploring: They were clutching.

"OW!" He flinched back.

"Castle! They'll be here any second. Look at you!"

"Me?" He gestured at her wrinkled, untucked shirt.

" _You!"_  She grabbed the placket of his shirt, which was flapping open to the fourth button and slightly . . . wet in suspiciously mouth-shaped patches. "Go . . . go change your damned shirt! I need a bathroom."

Castle stepped back and held out a hand toward the office. She gave him a withering look. "What? The others are upstairs. You'd rather run into my mother?"

The intercom buzzed. Beckett gave him another look. This one said  _I'll kill you later._

"You're fine. Fine-ish," he said hastily as he reached for the phone. "Eduardo, yeah . . . you can let them up. And one more should be on her way—Dr. Parish. You can let her up, too, when she gets here."

He slapped the phone back into its base and took her by the shoulders. "Mirror in the hall. Tuck your shirt in. Try to find my button before someone else does."

He took two steps toward the office, turned back, and planted one last kiss on her. Her fierce growl was undermined just slightly by the smile she couldn't quite hold back.

The smile took a hit as she caught her reflection in the mirror. The color was high in her cheeks, but they looked positively pale in comparison to the cherry red mark blooming where her neck dipped to meet her right shoulder. She did up another button on her shirt and tugged on the collar to cover as best she could.

The sound of voices in the hallway told her she was out of time. She fluffed her hair out around her face and shoved the tail of her shirt into her pants. She had time for one more deep breath before they were knocking on the door.

"Yo," Esposito gave her an odd look as he stepped through the doorway. Beckett stared back. If he'd been about to say something, he thought better of it.

Ryan stepped around the two of them. "Where's Castle?"

"Uhh . . ." Beckett cast a desperate look over her shoulder.

"Just getting my notes." Castle emerged from the office looking approximately hundred times calmer than she did. She didn't know whether to hate him for it or be grateful.

"We should wait for Lanie," Ryan said as he moved into the living room.

"No, man," Esposito grumbled as he followed. He dropped into an arm chair to Ryan's left. "Tired off all this crap on the down low. We'll catch her up."

Castle took the other arm chair. He looked thoughtfully at Ryan, who couldn't seem to get comfortable on the couch. He kept setting a file folder down, then picking it back up again. "Ryan, why'd you want Lanie in on this?"

Ryan looked desperately around the room. Something inside him snapped and words came tumbling out. "It's just . . . Gates just laid this on me. You two . . .  _you_ two just left me there, and she hands me this folder. And it's all like . . . between the lines. She's all 'I trust you and your team to handle this information discreetly.' Has she  _met_  us?"

The other three exchanged looks that were half alarmed, half amused. Esposito shrugged and made a small gesture in Beckett's direction.

She shot a sour look back at Esposito as she took a seat next to Ryan. "Ok, ok. We  _will_ handle it. Whatever it is."

"The file is about the hospital," Castle said suddenly. "Nos restituo. 'We restore'—the mental hospital that Raymond Sanders ran. You don't shut a place like that down over night. It must've been under investigation for years."

"But why would Gates have the file?" Beckett plucked the folder from Ryan's hands. She turned it over, but both front and back were absolutely blank. "Orangeburg is way out of NYPD jurisdiction. And this doesn't look official."

"That's the point, isn't it?" Esposito leaned back in the arm chair. "Gates wasn't just NYPD Internal Affairs. Used to be on a state-wide corruption task force."

"How'd  _you_  know that?" Ryan looked simultaneously relieved and annoyed at being scooped.

"Joe Cavanagh. Low-level scumbag for an operation the task force was investigating right before it got shut down."

"What kind of operation?" Beckett asked sharply.

"Someone was funneling cops from one system to another." Esposito's face was grim. "Dirty cops. Bad cops. Somebody was getting them out before they came up on charges and arranging transfers to small-time operations like Westchester, Orangeburg."

"Less scrutiny." Castle nodded. "But what does this have to do with Raymond Sanders and the hospital?"

"That's why I wanted Lanie here," Ryan broke in. "The cases in this file are a real mixed bag, but they all have one thing in common: A mentally ill victim or perpetrator."

Beckett chewed her lip as she flipped through the file. "They're all Kendra's Law cases," she murmured, "but almost none of them went anywhere."

"Kendra's Law?" Castle looked from Esposito to Ryan.

"Goes back to 1999. Two people got thrown in front of subway trains, both of them by guys with serious mental illnesses who were out of treatment," Ryan explained. "Law lets a judge make treatment mandatory."

"Mandatory," Castle repeated. "And what happens if they don't comply?"

"Then they get to enjoy the hospitality of the local authorities for up to 72 hours," Esposito said.

"And then what?" Castle uncapped a pen.

"Depends." Ryan gestured to the file. "Lot of people in there ended up involuntarily committed."

"This doesn't make any sense." Beckett tapped the edge of the folder against her fingers. "Kendra's law cases are usually people who are invisible . . . homeless people, addicts who are self-medicating. Sanders and that law firm were catering to people at the completely opposite end of the spectrum."

"Lot people who don't like the law say it's just an excuse. Makes it easier to get rid of inconvenient people," Esposito shrugged.

"1999 you said?" Castle asked

Ryan nodded.

"Castle?" Beckett watched him scrawl furiously in the margin of one of the notepad's fuller pages. She  _loved_  this part. The way the story came together. "You're thinking that's what happened to Philip Grayson . . ."

"Oh, definitely," he said absently. He made a frustrated noise as he ran out of room on the page. "His arrest is in 2001. . ."

Esposito shook his head. "Law only applies to violent cases. Harm to self or others."

"Self harm." Castle sounded absolutely confident. "Young, gay man. Abusive father. I'd bet anything he tried to kill himself right after that arrest."

"Yeah, but he was a minor at the time. Charles Grace was pretty free to have him involuntarily committed anyway," Beckett argued.

"But Grace was laying the groundwork for when Chase  _wasn't_ a minor. Man like that isn't about to give up control on a technicality. So he has his son committed—not just anywhere, but somewhere he could count on to keep his son under wraps, no matter what. I'm guessing that's where he met her."

Beckett looked at him blankly for a moment, but his attention was back to the notepad. He'd started a fresh page. "Audra? I guess we never really got a good idea of which of the rumors about her past were true . . ."

"Not Audra, Claire." He held up his free hand while he finished whatever he was writing. He looked up to find three pissed off cops staring at him. "Oh, Claire Winnert's alive. That's who Audra's traveling with. Didn't I say that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, dearie me. Epic chapter is epic. This ended up being longer than the last, and I thought about splitting it up, but ultimately decided against it. Please assume, for the purposes of this chapter, that Eduardo the Doorman occasionally earns his keep: After all, Castle is a moderately famous individual living in a very posh loft. What, if not Eduardo, is to keep random lunatics like myself from wandering in off the streets of New York and interrupting sexy times?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not doing any editing or proofreading, just tossing this up, so I'm sure there are numerous things that are stylistically awkward and formally wrong. Apologies.


End file.
